A Simple Mission
by Randomite
Summary: Set pre-show. A simple mission goes awry and the cost of the Cardinal's meddling may be more than any of the Musketeers want to pay.
1. Prologue

_A first venture into FF for some time: I'm citing pressure of work and lack of inspiration as the main culprits, but "The Musketeers" got to me having loved these characters since childhood and this is the result._

 _This is set pre-series (so no d'Artagnan) and is a reinvention of an idea I tried previously with another fandom but had to abandon when real life and my dissatisfaction with the resolution caused it to grind to a halt. Rest assured, I do have a clear idea of how this is going to work out, I even have an epilogue drafted in my mind for it. All I need now is the time to get it written._

 _Apologies in advance to anyone who finds my "wordy" style irritating: It's just how I like to write._

 _Additional author's note: Reviews, both positive and constructively negative, are always welcomed._

 _Additional, additional author's note: My thanks to Deana for pointing out the mess I made of the original posting of this._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Prologue**

The muted but still warm September sun had already reached its zenith and begun its graceful descent to mid afternoon when the modest hamlet received an unexpected arrival.

The grey mare moved slowly and carefully. Whilst undoubtedly due, in part, to whatever caused the significant amount of dried blood visible on her rear flank, her cautious movements also spoke, to anyone with an appreciation of the sensitivity frequently displayed by these noble creatures, of a more deep-seated deference to the sad nature of her cargo and a desire to carry it safely to someone who might assist.

The cargo, a man as its shape clearly defined it to be, was slung across the beast's saddle, secured by a belt and a short length of rope and wrapped in a dark blanket. His boots were all that was visible.

He was obviously dead.

A boy, of no more than 14 or 15 years old, let out a cry of anguish as he recognised the animal and moved towards it but was stopped by one of the village women who cautioned him to let the men deal with this...he was too young to see what may lay beneath the covering. His further resistance was quelled by a steadying hand on his shoulder as one of the older men passed them approaching the scene, warning him quietly not to startle the horse.

The man neared the mare, uttering soft words to soothe and assure her she'd done well to come to them; she halted and allowed him to take her reins. He stroked her neck briefly, ensuring she was calm and happy to accompany him before leading her gently to a small barn at the end of the main, and only, street. With a brief hand gesture he indicated for the boy to fetch the blacksmith, the only other adult male not presently employed in the fields; the youngster ran to do his bidding.

Once in the barn, the older man briefly checked the horse; he could, after all, do nothing for her passenger. The wound appeared to be a furrow through the hair, breaking the skin on its way. Although unfamiliar with what could cause such a wound on an animal he reassured her that they'd take care of it as soon as possible and she stood calmly, apparently confident of his good intentions.

The arrival of the blacksmith allowed both men a moment to assess the situation more fully. Things like this didn't happen in their small settlement and they were a little unsure how to proceed and more than a little nervous about what lay beneath the covering.

After a moment or two the older man spoke:

"His hands have been secured so they don't hang down. Whoever sent him to us clearly wanted him treated with dignity. We are being asked to look after him properly."

The blacksmith nodded nervously and indicated that they should get the corpse down so that it could be laid out more appropriately.

The bindings released easily and the two men gently slid the body from the saddle, bringing it to rest on a blanket they'd laid on a bed of straw. As they did so, part of the cadaver's covering slid away to reveal the right shoulder.

A gasp was heard behind them, the boy had sneaked into the barn unheard by either man as they concentrated on their task.

Looking down they saw the cause of his reaction.

TBC


	2. Chapter 1

_A short note to say that any place names, Paris aside, are entirely fictional and any similarity to locations present or historical are purely coincidental: In other words, if you don't recognise it, I made it up!_

 _As for characters, well all normal disclaimers apply._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter One**

The late summer sun was beginning to redden and dip behind the rooftops of Paris as the last of the Musketeers and cadets deployed on day-long duties within the city filtered back into the garrison.

Treville surveyed the returning numbers from his vantage point just outside his office, checking particularly that the newer recruits and senior cadets attended to their horses' needs and stowed any surplus weaponry safely before going off duty: A few of the cadets and, in fairness, some of the newly commissioned members of the regiment, were still apt to shirk their responsibilities (or palm them off to the junior cadets) if they thought they could get away with it.

The sound of two sets of hooves accompanied by a booming voice signified the return of Athos and Porthos from their day's duty. Treville successfully suppressed the wry smile that threatened to break his stoic countenance as he noted the alacrity with which the cadets infused their movements as two of those known as "The Inseparables" approached: Whilst his presence was enough to ensure there was no dereliction of duty, very few of the recruits would miss the opportunity to potentially catch the eye of one of the legendary trio and, just possibly, get the chance to accompany one of them on even the most mundane of missions, as one of their number had recently done.

Athos' steely gaze swept all visible areas of the garrison, his expression inscrutable to all but those who knew him exceptionally well (of which there were few). Nevertheless, Treville did not miss the quirk of those blue eyes asking the question for which an almost imperceptible shake of the head was a sufficient, but unsatisfactory, response.

Porthos, on the other hand, always far more of an open book, could not fully mask the mix of frustration, disappointment and worry that crossed his features as his eyes glanced around but failed to find what they sought.

The returning men dismounted and, as their duties that day had not required any extra weapons, led their horses straight to the stables and delivered them to the care of the stable boy: The action caused no annoyance among the others present, their seniority gave them the right to delegate any tasks as they saw fit.

The throng within the main courtyard was already starting to disperse when the two men made their way back through the area, Athos surreptitiously grabbing Porthos' arm to prevent him heading directly to Treville's office.

"They're not back yet..." the big man hissed to his companion.

"They're barely overdue..." Athos' calm monotone belied his own concerns.

Treville returned to his office and sank wearily into his chair. It had been a simple mission and there was nothing as yet to suggest anything but the most minor of delays had occurred but it had been a risk he'd have normally been loath to take.

"The fact of the matter was that, at any other time, he would never voluntarily send only one senior musketeer on any task that took them out of the city. The roads were dangerous and any communication from the King could be misused if it found itself in the wrong hands. Unfortunately, at present, the Captain of the Musketeers was extremely short of his principal resource: Musketeers.

This was due, entirely, to the Cardinal, yet again, manipulating the impressionable young King to his own ends. On this occasion he'd spent some considerable time, at every available juncture apparently, airing his doubts as to the battle-readiness of the elite guard should they be needed to fight away from the confines and well-known streets of Paris. He'd expressed concern that they would have lost touch with the ability to fight in any kind of rural terrain thereby potentially compromising his Majesty's safety on any journeys he may choose to make.

Over a period of time, he'd drip-fed this suggestion to the King so frequently that, eventually, Treville had been ordered to deploy a full company of men on a series of exercises to assess their abilities.

Unable to refuse a direct order from the King, Treville been left with a state of affairs that meant, presently, almost half of the regiment's number were engaged in a series of largely pointless simulations some several days' ride from Paris under the supervision of a long-retired General who, if the rumours from reputable sources were to be believed (and Treville was so inclined), could count the amount of time he'd spent sober during his 10 years since leaving the Army in days only.

More importantly, the situation meant he had an extremely limited capacity to meet all the other demands constantly made on his men, further exacerbated by His Majesty failing to anticipate any effect his order may have on their availability to perform the regiment's normal duties. Among those who held a commission and remained in Paris, double-shifts had been the norm for the last few days as they'd tried to plug the gaps left by the absence of so many; shoring up numbers on patrol with senior cadets.

Pragmatic as ever, Treville had decided to try and at least glean some advantage from the position he'd been placed in by using the shortage of personnel to speed up the commissioning process for those cadets who were ready to step up and start taking on individual responsibilities: Top of that list was Edouard who was presently unaccounted for along with Aramis.

Edouard had shown himself to be extremely competent in all forms of combat, surprisingly mature for his age and, above all, discreet (a trait not considered essential for most other areas of the military but absolutely vital for anyone who may find themselves present at Court with any degree of frequency). Sending him to deliver a personal message on behalf of the King and returning with the expected response was a good opportunity bring him to His Majesty's attention as there was every chance he would create an excellent impression in doing so.

However, the fact remained that, as good, capable and promising as Edouard was, he was still an extremely inexperienced young man who could easily find himself out of his depth should the mission take a turn for the worse and, in those circumstances, both men could easily be endangered.

Treville sighed, a mix of frustration, fatigue and a desire to wipe that smug look off the Cardinal's face sooner rather than later, and reached for his quill to continue yet another of the interminable reports he seemed to spend his life writing, only to be interrupted by a shout from outside. With more enthusiasm to leave his paperwork than to investigate the cause of the summons, he pushed himself wearily to his feet and went outside.

In the forecourt below, a young boy, mid-teens at most, sat astride what could only, charitably, be described as a farm horse, determinedly requesting to see the Captain immediately.

Impressed and irritated in equal measures by the boy's audacity, Treville descended the stairs towards him. Porthos, Athos and several others stood nearby, primed to take any action that might become necessary, but the youth looked several meals shy of an appropriate body weight for his height and the short sword, the only obvious weaponry he carried, looked to have seen better days. Tired as many of the Musketeers present were, he scarcely represented any kind of physical threat to any, let alone all, of them.

"I'm Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers. I hope you have a good reason for this intrusion." Treville stated bluntly but without any intentional unkindness. Although, that said, it had been yet another very long day and he was unsure as to the depths of his patience should this turn out to be some fatuous time-wasting exercise.

The boy nimbly dismounted and, as though realising the state he must be in after what was, clearly, some time on the road, pushed his hand through corn blond hair and briefly dusted himself down before introducing himself formally.

"My name's Bastien, I'm from a village called l'Ensors on the estate of the Duc de Bellacoure." The boy blurted the statement out as though he'd been practising it in his head for some time.

The Duke's name caused Athos and Porthos to exchange alarmed glances, he was the recipient of the letter Aramis and Edouard had been entrusted with...and they weren't fond of coincidences.

Treville, outwardly unmoved as ever, inclined his head slightly to the youngster.

"And what brings you to Paris, Bastien?" The Captain's tone was noticeably softer given the youth's clear effort to act correctly despite, on closer inspection, appearing to be quite upset.

Bastien took a deep breath as though composing himself and reached into the small, coarse-textured bag tied to his waist. Almost on instinct the Musketeers present in the courtyard positioned their hands close to their weapons, but Treville halted them with a raised hand and took a step closer to the newcomer.

"Do you have something to give me, Bastien?" Closer than anyone else to the boy, Treville could see the distress on his features and was starting to genuinely worry about the exact nature of the new arrival's business.

Bastien nodded miserably and withdrew an object from the bag.

"My Grandfather said to give this to you...t-t-that you'd know what to do..."

Although Athos and Porthos tried, unobtrusively, to get a glimpse of the item, the proximity of their Captain and Bastien obscured it frustratingly from their view but the abrupt drop to Treville's shoulders set them both on edge.

Gathering himself as the professional soldier he was, Treville slipped whatever it was Bastien had given him back into the bag and put his free hand supportively on the boy's shoulder.

"Come with me please, I'll need you to give me all the information you can." Turning around, he dismissed everyone else remaining in the courtyard.

"Not you two..." HIs order was directed at Athos and Porthos who were, of course, standing closest. "...my office. Now!"

Treville lead the way to his office, pausing only briefly to instruct Serge to ask someone to ensure Bastien's horse was watered and fed; a kindness for which he received a grateful, if tentative, smile from the slightly overwhelmed youth beside him.

Athos followed, his face a carefully composed veneer of impassiveness hiding a myriad of possibilities, none of them good, all vying for attention within his keen mind. Porthos moved woodenly behind him, fighting a losing battle against a baseless sense of dread he'd been carrying all day.

For both men, those few steps to the Captain's office seemed to take an age.

Treville seated himself behind his desk and motioned for Bastien to do likewise, indicating a sturdy wooden chair to one side. He did so, obediently, his glance alighting briefly on the other two in the room, the tension radiating off them in waves, as though to assure himself he was not within easy reach of either.

Porthos, more sensitive to the feelings of others than most gave him credit for but wary of what may have prompted the Captain to withdraw them from the more public area, set himself at the far side of the room to Bastien, bracing himself against the wall.

Athos adopted a superficially languid pose just inside the door and perfectly poised should any intervention be called for; a stance that Aramis had once described as 'a reptile posing as a rock to trap the unsuspecting'.

The Captain reached out his hand towards their guest and asked, "...may I?".

Under different circumstances, Treville may have taken time to be suitably impressed by the farm lad's acuity when he instantly untied the canvas bag from his belt and handed it and its contents over without question.

With his typical, well-practised, composure, Treville loosened the strings of the bag and withdrew the item which had so clearly shocked him earlier. He laid it on the table so it was in clear view.

It was a leather pauldron: The unmistakable emblem of a King's Musketeer.

Even more unmistakably, it belonged to Aramis.

TBC


	3. Chapter 2

_Wow! Thanks so much for all the reviews and follows so far._

 _I will try to update as frequently as possible but time constraints (and my own pedantry) may mean some chapters will take longer than other. Please bear with me and I'll hope to make it worthwhile._

* * *

 **A simple mission**

 **Chapter Two**

Porthos, silent in a way that made him seem even more threatening than normal, stepped forward to grasp the pauldron, examining it closely as though hoping to find it was, somehow, fake.

When he looked up, he gazed straight at Bastien:

"Where did you get this?" His voice rumbled in the way a mild tremor warns of an imminent earthquake.

Bastien, quite justifiably, looked terrified.

"Porthos!" Treville's calm, authoritative voice cut into his consciousness and he forced himself to move back and attempt, somewhat unsuccessfully, to look less intimidating.

Turning to Bastien, Treville was at pains to soften his tone as much as possible. The last thing they needed was for the boy to freeze completely or pass out, both of which, at that moment, looked like distinct possibilities.

"Please tell us everything you can."

Bastien swallowed hard, drew several deep breaths to calm himself, and began...

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _Two days previous. Early afternoon._

Aramis slowed his elegant grey mare a little as they approached the sturdy bridge crossing the river which marked the boundary to the Duke's lands, allowing Edouard's horse to pull alongside him. The bridge was a legacy of the current Duke's father and allowed for far better access to the estate from the main road than had been possible prior to its construction. The two men traversed it side by side.

The trip thus far had not, in essence, been an unpleasant one. The sun, paler now that autumn was drawing near, was still pleasantly warm but not too strong and a gentle breeze had kept both the travellers and their steeds comfortable.

That said, after such an early start and only the one short break so far, all concerned were starting to tire.

In spite of the relatively comfortable travelling conditions, the uneventful trip, coupled with the absence of his familiar companions, meant that Aramis was starting to get a bit, make that a lot, bored.

On the face of it, Edouard presented the appearance of a worthy, respectful, young man who, with experience, would make a reliable musketeer and a valuable addition to the regiment. However, at the moment, the 'respect' was starting to get rather wearing and Aramis found the hours were dragging where, normally, they would have been punctuated and made less trying by the entertaining badinage he could invariably count on from his friends.

Aramis had no problem with Edouard taking the mission seriously, as indeed he did, and he understood that the inexperienced man would want to be seen to be doing so. However, in his opinion, there was a difference between acting appropriately and being, for want of a better term, po-faced for hours on end.

Aramis sighed inwardly, concluding his companion didn't know any better yet; " _Hopefully, he'll relax once the novelty wears off and he's been sent on a few more of the King's errands,_ " he thought. " _We were all that young once..._ ". Athough, admittedly, Aramis doubted he could ever have been that strait-laced if he'd tried.

Trouble was, understanding the reason for his colleague's behaviour wasn't any help at this point in time. Throughout the journey, efforts at conversation had tended to be curtailed by brief answers with no additional input and the thought of another four or five hours contemplating the ache that was beginning to grow at the bottom of his back, musing as to what mischief his friends had got into that day and wondering whether that friendly little barmaid was back from visiting her aunt yet...

"There's a village ahead, _Sir_."

Aramis was jolted back to the present with quite a start; he wasn't sure if it was because Edouard had finally said something unprompted or because being called "sir" was really annoying: It certainly wasn't the perfectly ordinary sight of a village, well...more of a hamlet really, situated on what was clearly a regularly used and well-maintained road.

He pursed his lips very slightly. The distraction couldn't have been something interesting like a brawl, a good fight would loosen his back muscles quite nicely right about now, but it was, at least, something different to break the monotony.

"Excellent!" He said brightly. "That'll give us a chance to water the horses and brush the worst of the dust off before we ride on to the Chateau. It wouldn't do to arrive looking like we've been travelling."

Edouard looked bemused at the last remark.

" _So he doesn't do sarcasm either..._ " Aramis thought, resolving to dragoon Athos into assisting him in getting the cadet well and truly drunk at the first opportunity when they got back; Edouard really did need to loosen up and there was every possibility the results could be... _interesting_.

With the entertaining thought of what an inebriated Edouard might be like and a visible destination ahead, the remaining ride to the group of modest houses and buildings clustered either side of the road was reached within a tolerably short period of time.

Passing the small barn which more or less marked the start of the apparently deserted hamlet, no more than a dozen habitable dwellings at most, Aramis was acutely aware of being watched although he sensed no malice. A small movement just beyond one of the buildings ahead caught his eye.

Dismounting so as to appear less threatening, he was heartened when a teen emerged into the open looking rather more curious than anything else.

"Good afternoon." Aramis greeted him politely, the epitome of charm. "My name is Aramis of the King's Musketeers, this is Senior Cadet Edouard. Would you be so kind as to allow us to water our horses and take a few moments to refresh ourselves before we continue our journey?"

Disinclined to pull rank but equally anxious that an austere and rather unfriendly looking Edouard sitting atop his horse didn't alarm the youngster, he shot a glare at the other man and indicated with a nod that he should follow suit. Fortunately, the robust hint was taken and, with a tangible sense of reluctance, he obeyed.

The youngster looked momentarily stunned by the polite request before gathering his wits and responding:

"...er...sorry. Yes, of course. Let me help you."

"Please don't trouble yourself on our account, I'm sure there are things you need to be doing." Aramis' tone was kind and lacked any hint of condescension. "If you could just show us where everything is, we'll be done and out of your way in no time."

The truth was Aramis could see the location of everything perfectly well, there wasn't that much there to see, but he hated those types who considered themselves above the people they regarded as "mere peasants" just barging into places and taking advantage without a thought for the inhabitants who created and maintained the amenities they were using.

Edouard, for his part, looked detached from proceedings and slightly mystified.

Aramis inwardly sighed, feeling more than a little disappointed. Part of his brief for this mission, given to him independently by Treville, was to assess the man's overall suitability to be considered for a commission: More was often learnt about people when they were removed from their familiar environment than would be seen in everyday routine. So far, in the musketeer's opinion, Edouard's veneer of decency wasn't faring too well under a different light.

The lad had also clearly noticed the difference between the two men's attitudes toward him but, sadly, seemed to accept Edouard's aloofness as the norm and cheerfully turned his attention back to Aramis.

"No, I'd love to help. May I?" Then, as if realising something, added. "Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Bastien D'Assierre. Welcome to l'Ensors."

Aramis was pleasantly surprised by Bastien's civility and articulate speech and strongly suspected the lad might not be quite the typical, poorly-educated, farm boy first appearances would suggest.

Edouard's continuing indifference said more about the cadet than the engaging youngster as far as Aramis was concerned and the musketeer saw no reason, given they'd made good time, not to annoy his travelling companion a little further while enjoying his first genuinely pleasant human interaction of the day.

Strolling companionably over to the horse trough as Bastien indicated, horse in tow and Edouard following (stiffly), Aramis learned that the remaining locals were largely occupied in the fields gathering the last of the harvest; a couple of the older women had taken the youngest children on a picnic before the weather broke; the blacksmith had been summoned to the Chateau while Bastien himself had remained behind because his grandfather, his only family, was feeling unwell and was presently resting. The boy was chatty and animated: Aramis was happy to listen after so many hours of dour company and interminable roads.

While his horse took her well-earned break, Aramis seized the opportunity to hand her reins to Bastien.

"Do you mind...? I'd like to brush off some of this dust."

The beautiful grey mare didn't need to be held, she wouldn't go anywhere, but the admiring glances Bastien had thrown her way while they'd walked hadn't gone unnoticed: The look of delight on his features as he held the reins and stroked her neck was fully worth the minor deception.

Almost as pleasing was Edouard's irritation.

Regarding the specific additional aspect to this mission with which Treville had tasked him, Aramis was pleased and dismayed in equal measures to have finally coaxed a genuine emotion out of the man, albeit something he'd have preferred not to see. For him, manners and respect were only of value if they were applied equally to everyone; it seemed that Edouard wished to pick and choose when he offered such basic courtesies. It was a very unappealing trait and suggested a superficiality to the man that did not augur well.

If nothing else, he was grateful for the enlightenment their brief stop had granted him.

With time moving inexorably and still several hours to their destination, Aramis indicated they should resume their journey but not without first dropping several coins into Bastien's hand.

"My apologies, we have a schedule to maintain and we must continue. Please take this for your trouble as I fear we've left you a trough to refill."

Pragmatism won out over pride as the boy, despite a token protest, accepted the money. Although in no way did he seem neglected emotionally or intellectually, it was clear there were few luxuries in his life, particularly with an ailing grandparent. His beaming smile suggested money of his own was a rare experience.

Bidding farewell with a genuinely expressed wish that they meet again, from one of them at least, the musketeer and his now genuinely sour-faced companion continued on their way.

"Well that was unneccessary," Edouard huffed sulkily as they rode.

Aramis considered there were many things he'd like to say at that moment but, with the prospect of the man's company featuring large in the next 24 or more hours, judiciously decided to keep it professional.

"I'm sorry if you feel that, when representing The King and the Regiment of Musketeers, we have no obligation to cultivate goodwill whenever the opportunity presents itself."

In that moment, the affable and charming man was absent and the tone of rebuke directed at Edouard was as potent as any physical blow.

With that the Musketeer merely urged his horse to move a little faster so he could ride just ahead and avoid saying anything further he might regret.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _Treville's office. Late evening._

Porthos had been staring, intently, at the embossed leather he had held throughout Bastien's story. To hear about his friend's behaviour didn't surprise him in the slightest.

He also knew exactly how it felt to be looked down upon, as though he was somehow less of a human being, and empathised with the boy's recollection of the differing treatment he'd received from the two men: In fairness, he'd all but forgotten Edouard was also unaccounted for.

Porthos found himself unable to feel any guilt for that particular disregard at this point in time.

Treville had listened intently to the boy's story thus far. His long experience telling him that, whatever the situation in l'Ensors, it was now dark and there was nothing to be done tonight other than gather all the intelligence they could: Important information was often hidden in the smallest of details.

"Continue please, Bastien," he urged reassuringly.

"Just a little more succinctly, if possible...," Athos all but growled. He didn't doubt the boy was probably tired and rambling a little and knew he should probably show a little more understanding, but the aching realisation of what the boy had brought with him could mean was eating away at his legendary self-control and, besides, he was never that good with anyone below drinking age at the best of times.

"Let the boy speak, Athos." Porthos' voice was oddly gentle. Bastien momentarily reflected how swiftly his perception had altered during his time in this room. When he'd first entered, he'd assumed it was the 'giant' he needed to fear, now it was the quiet one who was tensed like a snake ready to strike while the other gave him a weak but reassuring smile. The tension he sensed within the room was palpable but, he concluded, largely benign, toward him at least.

He glanced around, all too aware of the silence that was waiting for him to fill it and felt slightly overwhelmed. These two men, alone, had been asked to join him with the Captain and, he reasoned, that it was unlikely their presence had been requested for reasons of security...

"I'm sorry," he said, realisation dawning. "The man who wears this...er..."

"Pauldron." Porthos supplied the word helpfully, reasonably sure he probably hadn't had a clue what it was called either when he first got the summons from Treville to join training for his fledgling regiment.

"...er... paul..dron..." Bastien shaped his mouth around the unfamiliar word with a grateful look at the man opposite, "...Aramis," he remembered the name, "...he's your friend?"

"Yeah..." Porthos choked out, still holding the worn leather, "..he is."

"I can see why." Bastien ventured with genuine sincerity and a weak smile as if recalling a happy memory. He addressed his statement solely to Porthos, feeling safer speaking only to him rather than the whole room.

Porthos felt his lips quirk to mirror the boy's expression. So typical of Aramis to make time for a youngster and ensure he felt valued; the moment had clearly meant a lot.

Athos watched the exchange, silently. Despite his impatience to get to the crux of Bastien's story he realised, on reflection, that this very young man, still a child almost, had made his way to Paris, alone, to bring them this information. The magnitude of what he'd done should not be underestimated.

Treville was content, for the moment, to simply witness the conversation. A tenuous bond appeared to be developing between the boy and Porthos and seemed the most likely to yield a full account of events.

"Can you tell me how you came to have this?" Porthos asked gently holding the pauldron out in front of him.

Bastien's expression crumbled and he glanced downwards as though taking a few seconds to compose himself.

The room descended to absolute silence as though all the oxygen and life had been sucked out of it as the lad recounted the grey mare's solitary return the following day...

TBC


	4. Chapter 3

_Once again, my appreciation for the reviews and follows._

 _I've been tweaking this chapter at every opportunity for a couple of days and I'm not sure I'll ever be completely happy with it. I am rather obsessed with details._

 _For those of you who are getting impatient to know the fate of our favourite marksman, it will become clear...soon (but not yet!)._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter Three**

Treville was the first to recover the power of speech after the bombshell hit.

Digging deep, he focused on his duty as Captain; he'd lost men before and knew the time for grieving was not yet. Porthos and Athos were temporarily lost to him, both entirely absorbed in their own thoughts as they tried to process the information they'd just been given.

"You saw his body? Do you know how he died?" His voice was colourless as he nonetheless took command of the situation.

"I saw a body but...," Bastien's voice was soft but fully audible in the devastated stillness of the room, "...as soon as he realised I was there, Grandfather forced me to leave. I don't know any more than..." the boy's voice trembled, he was exhausted.

Everything had happened so quickly since Bastien arrived, no-one had yet had a chance to stop and think that such a young lad was an strange choice as messenger. Treville forced himself to start thinking more dispassionately.

"I'm curious. Why did your grandfather send you all this way on your own?"

The question was unexpected and the change of tack caught Bastien momentarily off-guard. A brief look of guilt stole across his face as if he'd been caught stealing sweetmeats. He had no wish to lie and rationalised he'd achieved his aim in making the trek to Paris on his own so he may as well come clean.

"He didn't send me...I came here without his permission," he mumbled looking askance at the Captain.

"You did _WHAT_?"

"Grandfather came out of the barn with the..er.. pauldron...and said it would need to be sent here so you'd all come and get the...body," Bastien winced even using the word, "...but everyone was out in the fields and there's only the one horse left because Milo's too old to work the land all day...and that would mean they wouldn't have left till tomorrow...and I thought it was more important than that..." Bastien tailed off, aware of three sets of eyes boring into him as his rushed words spilled out trying to explain his actions.

"I thought he deserved better than that..." the boy finished almost in a whisper, on the verge of tears and looking, if anything, even younger than he had before.

There was a deafening pause.

"Finish your story, Bastien." Athos' cultured tones carved through the absolute hush, unexpectedly gentle in their expression.

Shocked that the dangerous looking man had even registered his name, but even more so that he'd addressed him so kindly, the youth sniffed loudly before continuing, nervous but determined.

"I saddled Milo and waited 'til Grandfather went to see what he could do for the mare's injury. Then I took the pauldron from where he left it and just headed here," he finished miserably as it dawned on him just how much worry he must be causing his grandfather. He began to fidget his hands and gnaw, anxiously, at his lower lip.

"You could have been attacked, or robbed...anything could have happened." Porthos said, a crack infusing his voice at the thought that a further tragedy could so easily have occurred.

Bastien looked at him directly and fixed him with an oddly fierce stare for one so young:

"I ride local errands all the time. I know all the back routes so I can get around fast and avoid the roads... makes it quicker too. I've been to Paris a few times, when Grandfather was stronger...besides," he added defiantly, "you've seen my horse. Do I look like I've anything worth stealing?"

His feisty response and the sheer amount of resourcefulness and courage shown by the lad won the unequivocal admiration of the other occupants in the room albeit tempered by disquiet for what a stunt like this would do to any concerned relative, let alone one who was unwell.

Nevertheless, under different circumstances, they doubtless would have relished his effrontery; after all, it's only what any one of them would have probably done.

"Come with me." Treville addressed Bastien firmly. He moved toward the door and the boy followed obediently, though obviously unrepentant.

They hadn't gone more than a few paces before the sound of someone apparently striking wood, extremely hard, emanated from the room behind them. Bastien jumped and made to look back but Treville simply enclosed his bony shoulder with a gentle hand and guided him back towards their destination.

Athos leaned heavily against the wall, nursing scraped and sore knuckles; the outburst had done little to ease his anger and frustration but it did, at least, provide clarity that this was not all some horrible dream.

It was just a simple mission. How could it have gone so wrong?

"I don't believe it's 'im," Porthos said softly, still glaring at the pauldron as though it would somehow give him all the answers. "The boy didn't see 'im."

"So some dead stranger comes to be wearing his uniform and gets carried back to the village on his horse...?" Athos' voice was almost a sneer he realised only after the words had left his mouth. He wasn't angry with Porthos, he even wanted to share his optimism however misguided, but right now he was also feeling the need to lash out. "All the evidence..."

"...circumstantial evidence..." Porthos corrected him, remembering when Aramis had taught him that particular term and thinking how proud his friend would be he'd remembered it.

"Fine," spat Athos, "overwhelming circumstantial evidence..." His voice petered out, arguing over semantics served no purpose. They were powerless to establish anything more tonight and that meant, until that situation changed, each needed to cope with things in their own way and allow the other to do the same.

A taut silence stretched between them mercifully interrupted by Treville's return carrying a wine flask and three cups. He was relieved to find he still had a desk and chair and chose judiciously to ignore the state of Athos' knuckles: It did not appear, thankfully for the condition of his office, that Porthos had moved at all while he'd been gone.

Pouring each of them a much needed drink, he handed the cups out before sitting back and taking several long gulps.

"Serge is making sure the boy eats well and then will find him a bed for the night within the garrison. He's been told you'll be leaving at dawn and he will be ready to travel. He assures me his shortcuts can cut, maybe, two hours off the journey to l'Ensors but said some of it will be cross-country and a difficult ride so I suggest you get something to eat and as much rest as possible. Tomorrow will be a difficult day and you don't know yet what you'll encounter when you get there."

His subordinates nodded. Treville's commanding tone and clear directives providing a rock of stability in the sea of questions and emotions that threatened to drown them.

He was right. All they knew at the moment was that they had two missing comrades, most likely one dead: The fact that the weight of evidence, thus far, pointed to the dead man being one of those missing in particular...

Taking their lead from their Captain, they drained their cups and took their leave. There was nothing more to be done at this time.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _24 hours earlier._

Aramis had eaten particularly well this evening and was feeling, most definitely, replete.

Having completed the remainder of their journey without incident, and minimal interaction of any kind between them, the musketeer and cadet had arrived at Duc de Bellacoure's chateau late in the afternoon.

It was unclear whether Edouard was sulking or actually mulling over the incident in the village; Aramis found he didn't much care, you could only challenge people's attitudes, changing them required the individual concerned to take on that responsibility for themselves.

Chateau Bellacoure was an imposing but, refreshingly, not particularly ostentatious building both outside and in. All the exterior staff they encountered, both when entrusting their horses to the eager stable boys who ran out to meet them and those working in the grounds, appeared cheerful and well-fed (not as common a sight as one would hope at many of the big houses Aramis had visited).

The Duke was among the wealthiest men in France and a staunch supporter of The King. He also, uncommon among the nobility, had a reputation as a philanthropist who treated his staff and tenants with decency and respect. The musketeer had seen nothing since their arrival to contradict that.

The Duke had graciously received them in person to accept the letter they carried and offered them food and overnight accommodation in the capacious servants' quarters so that they could return to Paris with his response first thing in the morning: Aramis and Edouard had both expressed their gratitude for his kind offer and it was in one of the communal areas of those quarters that the musketeer presently found himself, well-fed and comfortable but, unfortunately, not relaxed.

Edouard's behaviour had been impeccable throughout their audience with the Duke but, it seemed, he saw no problem with fully taking advantage of the very generous amounts of food and wine they'd been offered since they'd arrived in the servants' quarters. In short, Aramis no longer needed to wonder what he'd be like drunk, it was far from being as entertaining as he'd hoped it might be.

The musketeer had, tactfully, suggested several times that he should moderate his intake of alcohol and the young man had seemed to take note but, unfortunately, he'd not been reticent in helping himself to certain other "comforts" readily available either. A preoccupation he'd developed with a young female member of the household staff, who'd made something of a beeline for him from the start, appeared to be inhibiting his better judgement.

Aramis was no stranger to "approaches" from the fairer sex and, indeed, had to pause briefly in his contemplation of the cadet's behaviour to politely decline yet another distinctly coquettish offer of "...anything else I can get you?". The fact remained that experience had taught that it was never a good idea to involve oneself in any kind of dalliance when on a mission.

In this particular case, there was the additional consideration that, whilst willing bedroom companions were rarely in short supply, accommodations of the kind they'd been offered here were truly atypical and he'd hate to think he wouldn't be welcome should he be tasked to travel here once more.

Glancing over at his companion in the low light of the room, he also sensed there was something...off...about the young woman's actions as she, yet again, topped up Edouard's wine while leaning in closer to him. It was difficult to tell exactly in the low light but she seemed...

His thoughts were interrupted yet again by a pair of giggling girls all but nudging one another in the doorway and this time he failed to completely suppress an eye roll.

Salvation arrived in the unexpected but not unwelcome form of the cook. A plump, mature woman with an abundance of common sense, wits and sharp eyes to match (if the way he'd observed her run her kitchen earlier was anything to go by). Aramis had no doubt she'd noticed the amount of time her staff were managing to waste so far this evening, not to mention the other activities.

She shooed the girls away from the doorway, cautioning them of dire consequences if the kitchen wasn't clear before they retired for the night, and shot a caustic look in the direction of the couple in the corner.

Aramis arose from his seat and, with a gallant bow, stated:

"Madame Mechaux, your food is beyond compare, I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed such a wonderful meal. Would you do me the singular honour of joining me for a glass of wine after your long day?" He punctuated the invitation by shooting at glance in the direction of Edouard who clearly developed considerable delusions as to his personal charm after consumption of alcohol if the quite bored expression on the face of his "conquest" was anything to go by: All contributing to the musketeer's growing suspicions as to her real motives.

The matronly cook was, thankfully, as sharp as he'd anticipated. With a wry smile, she accepted the invitation and seated herself opposite, indicating with her hand to only pour a small amount into the cup he'd retrieved from the nearby shelf.

She took a small sip.

"Need a bodyguard, do you?" She glanced back at the maids clearing up in the next room and raised an eyebrow, a humorous glint lighting her eyes.

"Something like that..." Aramis' eyes twinkled back.

She made a show of imbibing a little more wine.

"They're good girls, just get a bit carried away sometimes," she glanced back at them with an endearing, affectionate look. "Funny. I thought you'd be the one I'd be chasing with a ladle come morning when you two first turned up."

Aramis feigned a hurt expression and clutched a hand to his chest as though wounded. "Madame... I would never..."

"...get caught? " the cook winked. He laughed.

"I would like to offer my sincere apologies for my companion's behaviour. He's a little new to such...generous accommodations." Aramis was sincere as he addressed the woman.

"Has he drawn enough rope to hang himself yet?" He was right, she missed nothing.

"Let's just say he's likely to remain a cadet a while longer than he previously anticipated." A brief inclination of the head marked appreciation of her perceptiveness. Aramis was certain no-one else among the servants they'd encountered had realised Edouard was not a commissioned musketeer.

"It takes two," the cook interjected sagely. "I've been working here a long time and dealt with as many wrong'uns as good in that time. That girl turns up just a few days ago, claiming poverty and begging for a job. His Grace says we should always try to help if we can and I needed an extra pair of hands cleaning in the kitchen as one of the girls was taken ill, but this one's a lazy little baggage. I say you leave 'em be, I could use the excuse to get rid of her."

Staff in places like this were usually long-term and utterly reliable. The information that this one was new to the household yet seemed uncaring that she was jeopardising the job she claimed to need so much by making such a show of herself was more than a little worrying.

It was possible, he considered, that she was trying to use Edouard as a means to get herself to Paris: It had happened before where young women had turned up at the garrison, sometimes with a baby in tow, demanding support from a musketeer after an alleged liaison during a mission.

Nevertheless, he smiled reassuringly whilst rising from his seat.

"I regret it's time for me to bid you a good night, Madame. Thank you for the pleasure of your company...you are a truly wonderful cook and an able bodyguard. I would like to assure you that, with another long journey tomorrow, the only arms I wish to rest in tonight are those of Morpheus. I shall endeavour to make sure my subordinate sees the merit of also doing so."

Madame Mechaux also rose.

"Poetic bugger," she grinned with genuine warmth, it wasn't often she got to speak to a man who treated her like she could understand full sentences. "I've got a solid copper pan handy if he won't come quietly."

"If it comes to that, I'll surely ask." After a day in the company of Edouard, Aramis had enjoyed the informative conversation and lively repartee almost as much as she clearly had.

The musketeer found he had no need for the loan of the kitchenware as Edouard was all but asleep and the girl had apparently made her exit through a door he hadn't realised was there in the low light. " _Perhaps she over-estimated his tolerance for alcohol, he's no use to her now_ ," he mused.

The whole incident left Aramis uneasy but he had no choice but to deal with the situation he found and lead his companion, rather unsteadily, to his room.


	5. Chapter 4

_Reposting this to get us at a better point in the story to break._

 _The good news is this puts us in a good place to start tying all these threads together from the next chapter._

 _Thanks, once again, for the reviews and follows: They're very much appreciated._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter Four**

Dawn was already well advanced when Aramis climbed the stairs to the main hall of the chateau and collected the Duke's sealed and, unusually, thick letter from one of his senior personal servants.

The letter was safely stowed in the small leather despatch bag which was securely slung over one shoulder and across his chest.

Returning to the servant's kitchen, he found Mme Mechaux being somewhat unnecessarily heavy-handed with the pots she was wielding. This didn't seem to being doing too much to improve Edouard's pale countenance and, presumably, aching head: He suspected it wasn't supposed to.

He couldn't resist the faintest hint of a smirk that briefly danced on his features, an expression, of course, not missed by the cook who gave him a knowing look which held its own undercurrent of mirth.

The junior maids present in the area were clearly subdued and focussed solely on their work. It was also of note that Climence, Edouard's erstwhile companion was nowhere to be seen.

Mme Mechaux indicated he should follow her to a small scullery where she'd prepared ample provisions for their return journey. As she packed the supplies she confided:

"That little strumpet's shown her heels during the night. Ashamed of herself no doubt and well she might be. I'll have her scrubbing the cellar for a month if she shows her face here again...that's if I'd even take her back."

In her agitation and ire it was clear that the other maids had been given a stern lecture on appropriate behaviour around visitors, hence their chastened manner this morning.

As she handed him enough food for a short siege let alone a one day ride back to Paris, she asked:

"I hope lover boy stays on his horse today, I'm not sure how much use he'll be for anything else."

The thought had crossed Aramis' mind already. Still, the Duke's lands were extensive and, with just the single road in and out, should mean they had a good half day's ride for him to sober up before they got back onto the main route the other side of the river.

"I believe the cadet will experience his just deserts this morning," he smiled his reassurance for the cook's benefit, hoping there was nothing unexpected to deal with in the immediate future. He knew His Grace had stressed that he required his response to be delivered to His Majesty at the earliest juncture and they would need to get underway if they were to make Paris by nightfall.

"Still..," he continued, " hopefully the fresh morning air will assist him regaining his sobriety sooner rather than later. In which case we should most certainly take advantage of that opportunity."

He spoke with more confidence than he felt and hoped they could at least exit the Duke's more formal gardens and sight of the chateau without Edouard vomiting up what little breakfast he'd managed to consume in full view of everyone.

He bid her farewell.

"Feel free to drop by if you're in the region," she smiled warmly, "and that goes for any other adult musketeers you may have with you. I'd leave the young'uns at home 'till they grow up a bit."

"Should the opportunity to do so arise, I shall most certainly bear that in mind." He gave her a courteous small bow resolving to bring Porthos this way should fate permit it. He had a feeling her cooking and his appetite could be a match made in heaven.

Edouard did manage the short walk to the readied horses and set himself in the saddle without drawing too much attention to himself and only swayed briefly. Aramis wondered how much experience the cadet had with alcohol as, despite Climence's enthusiasm in ensuring his glass never emptied, the musketeer felt sure he'd not had that excessive an amount: " _He probably did, I'm just too used to having Athos for comparison. Perhaps I've forgotten what a normal amount is?_ "

He regarded the man with a certain amount of sympathy. The cadet had been sent along with him because he seemed to have everything required to recommend him and yet, with the exposure to unfamiliar situations and opportunities away from the structure and organisation he was used to, he'd fallen apart with a startling rapidity.

" _Some things are only cured with time; youthful foolishness and hangovers among them..._ " he pondered, " _...but at least the latter of those two shouldn't take too long. Hopefully the lesson learned will last a great deal longer._ "

The chateau sank to the horizon behind them as they moved on at a sedate pace and then, with Edouard looking a slightly more normal colour when the fresh air began to have the desired impact, picked up the pace heading toward l'Ensors.

They'd been travelling for best part of two hours when the road started to weave through the dense woodland covering a significant portion of the Duke's lands, particularly to the South-East. Edouard had been drinking regularly from his water skin; as the sun started to grow in strength so did his dehydration. He was looking a little more awake than he had when they left but still didn't look like he could concentrate on much more than staying on his horse.

It was as the road started to cut across the side of rather more pronounced hill, with a high bank to one side of them and the forest sloping away gently to the other, that Aramis got that strange sensation that always pestered him when all was not right.

He scanned the area intensely, his eyes catching the smallest of movements and a glint of metal amongst the trees. Pulling his horse up sharply and turning to warn his companion as he reached for his pistol...

The world erupted in a hail of gunfire and smoke around them...

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _The following day._

The first rays of dawn had barely clipped the rooftops of Paris but Porthos and Athos were already checking their weapons and saddling their horses in preparation for the journey ahead. Neither looked like they'd slept much, if at all, and both men exuded an aura that cautioned those few awake at this ungodly hour it was wisest to avoid them.

Serge, aware of the early departure, had made sure they had supplies and was ensuring a reassuringly alert Bastien ate something before heading out to the courtyard.

Two further horses, saddled and ready to leave, were lead out as Treville descended the stairs followed by Geronne, the most senior of those musketeers still left at the garrison. The Captain, clearly dressed to travel, appeared to be imparting instructions to be carried out in his absence.

Athos quirked his head slightly. Whilst he would never dream of questioning his Captain's decisions, the three of them leaving together left the numbers remaining to cover the duty shifts woefully short.

He shared a brief look with his friend that suggested the big man was also querying Treville's intentions: Porthos' unsophisticated speech belied a sharp mind and very little escaped him. They tacitly agreed they'd clear a few things up with their commanding officer on route.

Bastien emerged into the open area. The youngster saw the horses and made to go to the stable to collect his own animal but Treville stopped him.

"You'll ride this one," he indicated the horse closest to him. The chestnut was a favourite among many of the recruits for her calm demeanour and reliable disposition.

Realising how that sounded, the Captain amended his tone remembering that Bastien was not one of his regiment to be ordered to do anything and clarified, more sympathetically:

"Milo is an old horse. He did very well yesterday but it would be difficult for him to make such a journey again so soon..."

"...at the speed you want to travel?" Bastien's tone was almost cheeky. He was already getting to know the gentle creature to whom he'd been assigned. She, for her part, nuzzled him affectionately knowing instinctively that this was someone who would treat her well.

Treville nodded, glad the boy understood. A question crossed the lad's features:

"Milo...?"

"A cart will be leaving at full light to...travel to l'Ensors," the Captain decided against enlarging on the reason for its journey, the purpose was obvious enough. "Milo will travel with them, the journey will be slower and easier for him. We'll make sure he's returned safely to his home."

"Thank you, Captain." Bastien's tone was genuine. The boy's care for the elderly animal that had served him so well was evident and heartening. Treville had no doubt the mare was in good hands, their horses were valuable assets and as crucial to their survival as any weapon. They should always be treated with decency and concern for their welfare: He wished some of his recruits realised that as readily.

The two musketeers were already mounted and ready to go, their impatience to be underway emanating from them in waves. In short order, the Captain and Bastien joined them.

The small procession made its way as silently as possible through the garrison's archway, mindful of the early hour, and were already approaching the outskirts of the city by the time full light was upon them.

The first half of the journey saw them following the main road and they made good time, pushing the horses as fast as they reasonably could.

When they slowed the pace a little to avoid over-taxing their mounts, Athos pushed forward a little to pull alongside Treville, Porthos flanked him on the other side. The Captain grimaced, he'd known this would happen at the first opportunity.

"Bastien.." he called, "can you scout ahead a little, please?"

The boy's features twisted into a curious half-smile; the road ahead was straight and clear with open countryside to both sides, there was nothing to scout. But he recognised when adults wanted to hold a conversation which didn't include him so shrugged and urged the mare forwards and out of earshot. He'd only ever dreamed of riding a horse like this so he wasn't too disgruntled.

"There was more to this mission than I was told...," Treville opened after the briefest of pauses. He knew them both too well to beat about the bush and they'd need to pick up the pace again soon.

"Tell us something we hadn't guessed." Porthos, straight to the point as always.

Treville drew a breath across his teeth, his frustration keener even than either of the men flanking him and his mood evident in his body language.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _Three days earlier. The Louvre. Late afternoon._

Treville hurried from The King's chambers, anxious to get back to the garrison and sort out the mess that was the rest of the week's duty schedule.

"Oh...Treville..."

The Captain composed his features into the most diplomatic expression he could muster and turned to face Cardinal Richelieu.

The sudden, and unexpected, upheaval, caused by losing a hefty proportion of the regiment to the insane idea that they needed additional training, had caused complete chaos he'd been desperately trying to sort out for the last 24 hours.

He'd already discovered several errors in the morning's rota. Some of his musketeers had found themselves trying to be, literally, in two places at the same time: The resultant mess and re-organisation of the rota just to cover the day's assigned duties had made him late for his meeting with His Majesty, not improving the monarch's mood any, and now His Eminence needed his further attention.

"His Majesty requested I ensure this letter is delivered to Duc de Bellacoure as soon as possible. My apologies for the delay in passing on the request, I had hoped to give it to you...before...the meeting."

The Cardinal's loaded tone and the implication it carried with it had Treville clenching his fist instinctively. Only the knowledge that acting on his impulse could not end, in any way, well saw him withdraw his arm slightly inside his sleeve to mask the action.

"And your Red Guard cannot fulfil this request because...?"

"My dear Treville, their task is to maintain peace within the City. Your men are far more suited to tasks outside." Richelieu was dismissive of the letter as he placed it in his hand and swept away down an adjacent corridor.

"I thought they needed more rural training?" Treville voiced the only polite response that came to mind.

The Cardinal turned, a patronising smirk upon his face:

"But they can manage roads at least, can they not?"

Treville seethed but, already snowed under with work, had no choice but to return to the garrison and try to stretch his already over-taxed men just a little further.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

"And...?" It was of unending fascination to all who knew him that Athos could imbue so much meaning into a single word.

Treville exhaled, heavily.

"Last night, after...," he rolled his shoulders as if he'd been carrying a heavy load, "...you left, I received a messenger from the Palace. The King wanted to know why he'd had no response from Duc de Bellacoure. It appears the information's of extreme importance." The last few words were forced out through gritted teeth.

"So we've been set up to fail and give The Cardinal further ammunition against the musketeers." Athos' statement neither invited nor warranted any argument.

"It would appear so." Treville affirmed.

"And it may have cost more than just losing face in front of The King..." Porthos ended the conversation brokenly. He encouraged his horse to pick up the pace and moved up to rejoin Bastien ahead of them, desperate to get to the village as soon as possible.

It was just a short while later that Bastien indicated they should leave the normal route and head down what was little more than a dirt track. The musketeers followed, trusting he could deliver the time-saving he'd promised and would not lead them astray. The terrain got rougher and the path more indistinct until it was barely visible but the boy led confidently and, judging by the south-westerly direction they were heading in, was apparently cutting a significant corner off their journey.

Their guide's excellent horsemanship was evident as he took them across several small streams, where they allowed their horses to drink as required, and navigated them over hills and through dense woodland. Other than an occasional spire of smoke from some distant dwelling, there was no sign of another soul during the trek.

Descending a hill path, single file, they found themselves back in open countryside and then, shortly after, picking up the main road once more. Unsure of exactly where they were, Treville looked questioningly at Bastien.

"We'll be at the bridge in less than half an hour," the boy affirmed.

The men looked at one another approvingly, if that were the case then the promise to shave a significant amount of time off their trip had been made good. The concentration required during the cross-country ride had served to distract from the fears that beset them but now, with their destination plausibly achievable before noon, they returned full force and the small group pushed on with no other purpose than to get to l'Ensors as soon as possible.

By the time they'd crossed the bridge and were nearing the village, the tension among them was overwhelming. Treville noted Bastien was particularly agitated, no doubt worrying how he'd explain his actions to his grandfather.

The Captain was relieved that any trepidation he may have entertained regarding the man's reactions were, mercifully, unfounded when he greeted his grandson's by gathering the boy into his arms, admonishments giving way in short order to expressing gratitude he was safe. After allowing the two a few moments, Treville stepped forward to announce himself and his men's presence properly.

"Captain Treville," Bastien's grandfather acknowledged the formal introduction, "I'm Jean-Marc D'Assierre. Thank you for looking after my grandson."

"I think you'll find it's him who's looked after us." The Captain was determined to commend, even if he couldn't entirely defend, Bastien's actions. "We've made excellent time thanks to his guidance."

D'Assierre nodded his appreciation of Treville's words although, no doubt, he'd be having some stern words with his impetuous charge at the earliest opportunity.

"Well gentlemen. I'm aware you're not here for idle chit-chat." The old man's sensitivity to their true purpose was welcomed by the musketeers whose tolerance for the necessary courtesies was wearing thin. "Please follow me."

Bastien attempted to go with them to the barn but his grandfather instructed him to stay back and, accepting that he'd already pushed his luck quite far enough in the last day, the boy complied with minimal objection.

Porthos stepped up to the robust door securely locked with a heavy wooden bar, presumably, preventing any accidental access by the village children, and removed it with impressive ease. They entered.

The interior to the building was cool but, even so, the unmistakable stench all soldiers knew only too well lingered in the semi-stale air; its source the recognisable shape of a corpse, covered by a blanket on a bed of straw.

Porthos felt and looked like he was about to be physically sick.

Athos, usually the least openly emotional or easily moved of all of them, appeared little better.

Not for the first time recently, Treville's responsibility as Captain was a burden he'd readily offload given the choice.

He stepped forward and pulled back the covering.

TBC


	6. Chapter 5

_Okay, this was tough. Writing action's not really my thing as my preoccupation with detail tends to slow everything down. I've done my best, hope it works._

 _Once again, I sincerely appreciate all reviews and follows and would like to thank those who've taken the time to do so._

 _Additional Author's Note: My heartfelt gratitude to the conventions of 'plot armour' and 'bad guy bullets' without which this would be a very short story._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 5**

 _The previous morning._

The attack was so sudden that Edouard never knew what killed him. The first shot piercing his heart and death taking him within a few seconds.

Aramis' instincts at least gave him a chance. Already turning to warn his companion, one bullet missed his cheek by a fraction whilst another tore through his outer thigh and, judging by the distress of his horse under him, ended its journey in her rear flank. He saw the cadet fall, recognised the soundless way he crumpled as the shock caused him to blackout and knew the young man was lost.

The ferocity of the onslaught left him no time to register anything but the fact he was alone under heavy fire: Exposed to attack from both sides.

His pistol already in his hand, he fired at the closest visible gunman hitting him in the throat, wounding him fatally.

Those next few seconds were a melee of counting shots and gauging their sources; trying to find a way out while presenting a constantly moving target. He was aware of near misses to either side of him. A sharp pain in his upper arm as he reined back indicating that, poor marksmen as they were, not all their shots were going wide of the target. He needed cover, and fast.

A brief pause in the barrage as the gunmen stopped to reload gave him an opportunity to assess his very limited options.

Grateful for their poor organisation, firing simultaneously rather than sequentially, he seized his one chance and, identifying the only gap in the attack which could potentially offer any protection, he wheeled the grey mare around and headed for the woods just behind his current position.

Holding the reins one-handed, he stowed his spent pistol into a strap in his saddle and drew his second pistol in one flowing, practised movement. He estimated there were at least eight attackers...no make that seven,he'd got one...and if they reloaded before he got to the relative safety of the trees he doubted he'd be as lucky a second time.

Unexpectedly, another man, one who'd clearly not discharged his pistol previously, stepped from behind a tree directly in his path, tentatively taking aim directly at the musketeer...

"KILL HIM!" The shouted command came from a voice high on the ridge.

The unfortunate attacker did not have time to obey the order, or even register his surprise, as Aramis' instinctive shot hit him straight between the eyes..." _Good, back to seven._ "

The injured mare, running on the same adrenaline that fuelled her equally wounded rider cleared both the body and a fallen tree as they escaped into the relative safety of the woods. Well aware that the action had bought them only the very slightest of gains in a situation where the odds were most definitely stacked against them, they weaved their way through the thick undergrowth seeking more able protection.

A familiar cold feeling threatened to settle in the musketeer's gut as he thought of Edouard lying dead on the road behind him but his experience, and expedience, forced him to direct his energies to his own circumstances; he could not afford to dwell on what he could not change.

Encouraging the mare to keep going, he stole himself a few moments to rationalise the situation.

The attack was random and completely unexpected. He felt sure the Duke would have warned of any raiders in the area and, even if he'd not known of them, the penalties for attacking the King's elite guard were well-known so it was unlikely they'd just been ambushed by opportunist bandits.

The only credible explanation was that the letter they were carrying was of far more significance than they'd been given to believe and, most probably, given his choice of personnel to carry out the mission, than Treville had been either. Never for one moment did Aramis consider his Captain would risk any of his men's lives unnecessarily.

Ignoring the burning sensation from his wounds, both limbs were still functioning further attention would have to wait, he focussed on the main priority: His mission.

Whatever was in this letter was worth killing musketeers for, therefore if he could not deliver it, he must dispose of it.

His immediate course of action was unclear. He had minutes at most while the men regrouped and began the pursuit they'd now have to undertake; if you attacked the King's elite guard you couldn't afford to leave any survivors. However, destruction of the letter would be irrevocable and a form of failure, something no musketeer ever accepted easily.

A discernible tremble from the sturdy animal beneath him prompted him to pull up briefly to assess the extent of her wound. He was relieved that it was only a fairly deep flesh wound as the slowing shot had hit her at an oblique angle and not burrowed too far into her flesh; it was clearly painful and he wasn't sure how far she'd be able to go, but it was also unlikely to cause any long-term problems if treated. The possibility of dealing with that particular "if", however, might a be something of a challenge at the moment and, regrettably, not his highest priority.

His right thigh seemed to choose that moment to contract causing the pain to increase significantly as though the damaged muscle was remembering it was what had decelerated the bullet that hit the horse in the first place.

Almost on instinct, he found his hands reloading the recently-used pistol with a speed that, fortunately, had earlier escaped his assailants. As he did so, the briefest of glances allowed him to convince himself his own injuries were, relatively speaking, minor in that they were not going to be immediately debilitating. Blood loss was not profuse although attention sooner rather than later would be preferable as it was unlikely either would cease completely without intervention. Pain? Best ignored.

Replacing the gun in its holster, he listened for any sign of his pursuers, it was easy to get disorientated in terrain like this and, whichever way he chose to go, he wanted to make sure it was away from those chasing him. Distant shouts gave him his direction but then he became aware of something else...another option? Running water, quite a lot of it by the sound: A river.

That did, at least, offer additional possibilities; if nothing else, water would render the document useless in short order if he had no other choice but to destroy it.

He guided his horse toward the sound. His favourite pistol, still stowed safely on the saddle would have to wait, he had no time now. What use a single shot would be against seven men he wasn't sure but it was better than nothing.

Alas, the river was not as accessible as he'd hoped it might be. On his approach it became clear that, although the water was torrential following recent rain, the weather had also loosened the earth bordering the deep ravine through which it flowed. Upended roots and jagged rocks attested to a fresh landslide near the edge.

With no time to seek better a better access point and not daring to take the horse too close, he dismounted and slapped her good flank to encourage her back into the undergrowth and out of the way of further harm. He migrated toward a large oak tree whose roots had held the earth more firmly than the surrounding area and, as a result, had created a kind of outcrop overhanging the significant drop below.

The slope down to the river was steep and littered with brutal-looking debris: There was no possibility of a safe descent from this position with the means presently at his disposal.

Reluctantly lifting the strap of the dispatch bag over his head, he manoeuvred himself as close as he could to the edge in order to achieve the best trajectory to the river. Holding the bag by the thin leather strap, he intended to use the swing of the bag to launch it and, more importantly, its contents into the flood below: The bag would prevent the letter being destroyed immediately but was far from fully waterproof when immersed and, by the time it could possibly be retrieved, there would be nothing left; it wasn't his first choice of action but needs must...

The bag hadn't completed its first full rotation when the bark on the tree, just above where his left hand was bracing him, shattered in response to the immediately identifiable sound of a pistol being fired.

Aramis re-tightened his grip on the bag recognising that to do otherwise would relinquish his only bargaining chip. Whilst he fully embraced the possibility that he may, one day, have to give his life in the service of his King, as options went it was at the very bottom of the list of things he was prepared to do to accomplish an objective. Even though the evidence so far, suggested these were not the best marksmen he'd ever faced, there were a lot of them and he knew, if he let go, he'd be dead even before the bag hit the water.

Turning carefully, trusting the tenacity and stubbornness of the old tree's roots rather than the fragile earth that webbed the spaces in between, he changed his grip on the bag from his right to his, injured, left ensuring it was still held out over open space; if they fired it was sure to tumble down the ravine making its retrieval at least extremely difficult if not impossible. For the moment it was all he had.

He faced his pursuers at last: Other than their numbers, he was unimpressed.

They were a rough looking lot, clearly hired thugs in search of a payday, presumably something the Duke's letter would provide. He regarded them carefully, sharp eyes noting everything they could see, more out of habit than hope; he had little encouragement to believe he'd have any chance to use the information gleaned.

All still mounted they filled the clearing abutting the ravine, seemingly oblivious to the signs of recent collapse in the area. From the nervous way they held the pistols they had trained on him and the trepidation on their faces, they'd clearly not expected any fight back from their quarry and this eventuality had not been considered in what appeared to be a fairly rudimentary plan.

"Hand over the bag and we'll let you live." The man who spoke, presumably the leader, seemed to have been searching for something to say.

In spite of the dire nature of his situation, or possibly because of it, Aramis laughed at the absurdity of the statement. Did they really think he was going to believe that? Of course they wouldn't let him live, whatever course of action he took, they couldn't afford to.

"Think it's funny do you?" The man brandished his pistol in the way those who had no professional training whatsoever had a tendency to think made them appear more threatening.

Aramis felt almost embarrassed that he was probably going to die at the hands of such a bunch of amateurs. Porthos would never let him live it down if he knew...moot point. What he would give for the sight of his larger than life friend entering the clearing right about now...

"No, my friend," Aramis sneered in a tone anything but friendly, abruptly redirecting his line of thought. "I was just amused by your originality."

The musketeer would never go down without a fight, even if the only weapons he had to hand were verbal ones. He wasn't sure what it could possibly achieve however it was hard to see how the current circumstances could possibly be worse: The tree to his right restricted him to the weak precipice; there was nothing behind him; and the only other directions possible were forwards or downwards, neither of which carried any real chance of survival. His injured left arm was also vehemently protesting its prolonged extension but there was no way he was letting them see that. He determinedly composed his features to betray nothing to the men before him.

A rustle in the undergrowth behind the group saw another horse emerge, a woman sat astride it: Climence. Aramis raised his eyes briefly skywards, now it was making sense.

"You know, you really should have taken some of my wine when I was offering it last night. You'd have been as subdued as your friend and your death would have been far less unpleasant." She had a cruel, coarse tone as she spoke.

Aramis recalled her frequent offers to top up his cup during the meal the previous evening. He'd declined, preferring to monitor his own intake from the small bottle he'd secured, easier to keep track of his own consumption that way.

From that point on her attentions had been solely focussed on Edouard. Poor, naive fool had been too distracted by her solicitude to even consider she had other motives; the cadet had known very little of the mission but he'd clearly, with whatever she'd used to dose his wine relaxing him unnaturally, disclosed their purpose and itinerary. Hence the current predicament.

No wonder the man had seemed to have a far more severe hangover than might have been expected, he probably still had whatever she'd added to the wine in his system.

He looked at her coldly.

"With respect, mademoiselle," he stated with a voice that clearly indicated he believed she deserved no such thing, "I have no plans to die today."

The lie was stated with absolute conviction and no other purpose than to provoke the group into some form of action. The stalemate was proving tedious.

She nudged the man who'd spoken earlier.

"Get on with it and get that bag. Our buyer will be waiting in Auchonne." Climence obviously didn't think the musketeer would be alive long enough to use that detail.

The lead thug, for he was little more, instructed the two men to his right to retrieve the desired item. Both were evidently unhappy about being volunteered for the task. They dismounted reluctantly and made their way toward Aramis' position, forced to move closer to the edge in doing so.

The musketeer, uncooperatively, drew his pistol knowing they still couldn't risk shooting him.

"What you goin' to do with that? It's only one shot." One of the men said with a forced bravado. It was noticeable that both stalled their advance at the sight, clearly neither of them willing to risk finding out if he'd had time to reload.

"I'll have the satisfaction of taking at least one of you with me," came the smooth reply. "Which of you wishes the honour of giving his life for the other?"

From the reaction this elicited, Aramis noted with a small degree of smugness, neither. The men fidgeted nervously, each looking to the other to take the lead.

At this point fate clearly tired of the standoff. The prolonged weight of so many on already weakened ground, aggravated by the foot shuffling as each man tried to make the other go ahead, caused the earth beneath them to finally give way.

As the ground crumbled, chaos descended.

The two loose horses reared up in their panic to pull away and those still mounted crashed into one another in their haste to escape back to the woods. The two unfortunates on foot were swept downwards in a sea of wet mud, rocks and roots.

Any satisfaction the musketeer may have felt was short-lived as the earth beneath the oak's roots also subsided and he felt himself falling...

TBC


	7. Chapter 6

_Once again, your reviews and follows make my day. My sincere thanks to everyone bothering to read this._

 _A/N Hollywood physics (as opposed to the real stuff that really wouldn't work for most stories) applies in this chapter._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 6**

 _L'Ensors. Around midday._

Treville knelt, regarding the face of the body lain on the improvised bier of straw. His subordinates stood just behind him both making sure they had a clear view of the corpse.

None of them said a word.

Treville and Athos both managed impressively impassive masks at the sight before them. Porthos could not.

He turned and walked through the open stable door and to the side. Bracing his back against the solid wooden wall, he slid down to a crouch and ran his hands over his face to compose himself. As he opened his eyes again, he found himself looking straight into a pair of concerned blue orbs.

"Monsieur...Porthos...?" Bastien approached and reached out a hand cautiously. Porthos grabbed it, realising what the boy must think.

"It's not him," he almost whispered. "It's not Aramis."

The boy smiled broadly. Porthos envied him his freedom to do so, feeling guilty that he himself was so relieved, even happy, when a young man, a recruit to his regiment, lay dead just a short distance away.

He'd left the barn because he hadn't know how to react when he'd seen who was lying there: Despite his protestations that Aramis couldn't be dead there'd been part of him that was ready for Athos to be right and now he wasn't sure what to think.

Standing up again, he drew a deep breath.

"I'd better get back..." The short break leaving him feeling more capable of dealing with whatever the situation was, he moved to return inside.

"So where's Aramis?" Bastien asked with a directness so typical of youth.

That knot of dread which had inhabited Porthos since the previous night and had temporarily loosened when the blanket was withdrawn, tightened again full force at the question. In some ways they knew less now than they had before.

He squared his shoulders and made a solid effort at a reassuring smile for the youngster's benefit:

"That's what we're going to find out."

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _26 hours earlier._

It would have been extremely unlikely that Aramis could have fully explained exactly what happened next if he'd ever needed to.

He was only briefly aware of the thrashing mess of limbs and rubble plummeting to the bottom of the ravine in front of his eyes before the earth beneath him, previously tethered by the deep roots of the oak, began at long last to also give way.

The collapse was in no way as precipitous as the other men's fall but it was, nonetheless, unstoppable.

Instinct took over. Releasing the pistol and drawing his weakened, and slightly numbed left arm, in toward his body, he managed to turn on the increasingly insecure footing. The ancient oak seemed to hang at an odd angle for several seconds as the remainder of its roots made a futile attempt to hold it secure: He used that time to haul himself to the other side of the toppling trunk.

Completely shrouded by the clouds of debris and dust rising from all sides, Aramis pushed off from the unstable platform and threw himself in the general direction of where he hoped some unaffected land remained just as the oak finally tore free of its moorings and began its terminal descent at an angle.

As it did so, its roots arced over to one side like the spokes of a cartwheel, one collided with him mid-leap, smashing into his already injured arm and causing his hand to spasm involuntarily: He was vaguely aware of something slipping through his fingers but could only concern himself that he was starting to rotate in mid-air with nothing solid, as yet, within reach.

Blinded and half-choked, he connected sideways on with something firm, ribs first. Unable to breathe, he reached, unsighted, with his right hand and found some fragile purchase. For an agonising few moments his entire weight was hanging on his fingertips as his feet kicked at empty air until he eventually managed to force his weary left hand to join its partner with a determination that could only be found in those fighting for their very lives.

His fingers worked their way desperately into small hollows formed by what the minimal vision he had confirmed to be earth compacted and secured by a tight, fine root system from the dense thicket of trees and undergrowth which formed one end of the clearing. A brief look upwards, as the flow of debris finally slowed, informed him he was only around a man's height from the top.

Aware that the landslide was exhausting itself and, more to the point, that, should he still be here when Climence and the others decided it was safe to return, he would present an easy target, he summoned what was left of his rapidly waning energy and commanded his tiring limbs to propel him up that short distance.

It wasn't far but it felt like a mountain as, more than once, soil crumbled from under his fingers and he had to hastily seek a better grip. When, finally, he managed to raise himself enough to dig a booted foot into a small gap and push himself upwards more rapidly, that last short distance felt interminable before he finally found himself scrambling on to level ground once more.

Exhausted, he all but dragged himself into an uncomfortable but reassuringly dense cocoon of the forest's undergrowth. With the last of his reserves he pulled his legs in after him and rolled slightly further into the relative safety the scrub afforded him, ignoring the stabbing and scratching of some of the more robust flora.

For the next few moments, he lay completely still, focussed only on forcing himself to breathe and the fact that, somehow, he was still alive.

As the noise of the subsidence lessened and he fully recognised that he was, in fact, on safe ground he took a moment to offer a brief prayer of gratitude that in a world where there was a general paucity of miracles he appeared to have just been the beneficiary of one.

The sound of horses and angry, dismayed exclamations drew him back fully to his current situation. The most strident voice among those who'd just re-entered what was left of the clearing was instantly recognisable as that of Climence.

He considered trying to move to obtain a better vantage point but realised almost immediately that, while they couldn't see him where he was, any movement amidst the undergrowth would be bound to attract attention. Judging from what was being said, they clearly believed he'd been lost among the rubble, along with their comrades.

At the back of his mind, he could hear Athos' soft, reasonable tones offering strategically sound advice as though the man was right next to him:

"Don't waste what little advantage you have. You can never be safer than when someone thinks you're no longer a threat. You're injured and could not get close enough to use your sword against so many. Just gain what information you can for now."

Aramis wondered if the more rational side of his brain was just giving him the instructions he needed to hear in a voice it thought he might actually listen to, but the point was a good one: His body was reporting a catalogue of minor but, certainly, painful injuries and he had to accept that, for the time being, he was in no shape to fight five men no matter how unskilled they were nor could he hope to employ the element of surprise with any movement likely to draw their attention.

In conclusion, any action that could potentially reveal his position at the moment would be tantamount to suicide: Gritting his teeth in frustration at his forced inaction, he listened intently to the activity so very close by.

Initially, when he heard the instructions to rig up a rope, he thought they may be trying to recover one of the bodies but, from the complaints of whoever had been told to volunteer for the job of being lowered down the treacherous incline, it quickly became evident that they intended to retrieve something else.

In fact, to his disgust, not once did he hear any of them express any distress or concern at their fallen men, only their own fears and recriminations that it could have been them.

"If you don't get down there and get it, you'll get paid nothing." Climence's manner was harsh and unsympathetic despite the man's obvious misgiving.

"The bag," Aramis groaned inwardly. He'd assumed it was buried but, from what he could hear, it sounded like it had got caught up on something, probably some part of the fallen tree, and was, at least, visible if not easily accessible:

"There will be a better opportunity than this to retrieve the letter. Just stay alive now," Athos spoke again in his head.

Aramis was inclined to tell his inner Athos to shut up and mind his own business. He wasn't used to being in situations where there was absolutely nothing he could do and his own powerlessness annoyed him to the point where he was close to behaving completely irrationally and hang the consequences.

Except there was still his mission. While that bag and its contents existed so did the task with which he'd been entrusted and, reluctantly, he had to accept that his better judgement was right: Any course of action that had no good chance of success would, effectively, hand Climence and her men victory.

His irritation caused him to clench his painfully scratched and bleeding hands into fists as he continued to monitor the, increasingly aggravated, dialogue.

"Well why don't you go down there and get it then. I bet you and Bouchier are taking the lion's share anyway..."

"Yeah, just a quick job you said. Dispose of a couple of messengers and we'll be on our way..."

"Nobody said anything about 'em being musketeers...should be double-pay for killing musketeers..."

Aramis heard the instantly recognisable sound of pistols being prepped to fire.

"One more word from any of you and you'll all find yourselves down there with yer mates and we'll still get paid." It was the man who'd appeared to have been giving orders prior to Climence's arrival. The musketeer assumed that was Bouchier.

After what seemed like an age filled with numerous complaints, the unwilling individual tasked with the perilous descent succeeded in retrieving the bag and was hauled back up.

Aramis keenly noted the general air of recalcitrance and dissatisfaction among the hired men during the whole process: He mentally filed the information under 'useful'. There was good reason to suspect their morale was sufficiently poor that it wouldn't take much to cause real trouble within the group.

The bag's recovery accomplished, it wasn't long before Climence's ruthless tones started barking her orders again.

"Two days and you'll all be paid in full. Now we get everything cleared up and then get on our way."

Aramis wondered how many would make it to collecting the financial reward they were anticipating given the general lack of regard their employer had shown for those working for her so far.

"A lot fewer if I have anything to do with it," he thought, finally daring to move as he heard their horses depart.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _L'Ensors. 25 hours later._

Porthos returned to the interior of the barn, his face a mask of professionalism.

If either Treville or Athos felt the need to question his previous action, neither voiced it. Indeed, the briefest of nods from Athos suggested he understood his friend's behaviour exactly.

"So how did he die?" Porthos queried with a steady voice.

"A single gunshot wound to the heart. Died instantly. " Athos, succinct as ever.

"The absence of other wounds suggests he didn't even have a chance to even defend himself." Treville's tone was even but bitter. Even though he understood and even shared the other two's relief as to the corpse's identity to some extent, this was still one of his men for whom he was responsible and losing anyone assigned to the regiment never got any easier.

Porthos regarded the body. He looked so young in death and, whether he'd known him well or even at all, it was still a terrible waste.

The man's hands had been crossed over his chest, his doublet slightly opened halfway down to allow them to be tucked in securely. However, between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, he noticed something odd: A small piece of linen was protruding, oddly untidy on a body that had clearly been treated so respectfully. He stepped forward to investigate further.

Treville had withdrawn to stand by Athos and consider their next step.

"This doesn't answer why Edouard was wearing Aramis' pauldron?" The Captain addressed the question to neither of his men in particular.

Porthos ran his hand over the pauldron in question, he'd kept it strapped securely to his belt ever since it had come into his possession, and grinned as he stepped back with the cloth in his hand.

"To ensure we'd get this."

He presented the small square of white fabric of the type usually kept for dressing wounds. On it was stained a single word:

"Auchonne."

TBC


	8. Chapter 7

_YAY! Finally, we've got to the beginning of the story :)_

 _Thanks to everyone who's left a review or is bothering to follow this story. Your support is very much appreciated._

 _My apologies if this chapter lags a little, I felt I needed to tie up all the loose ends so far before we could move forward._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 7**

Extricating himself with no small degree of difficulty from his cover, Aramis emerged into the dappled sunlight realising that, by now, the sun was well advanced in its ascent and noon was fast approaching.

His brief respite, of sorts, had, at least, been slightly beneficial in that he'd been able to establish that, other than considerable bruising and abrasions, he was on the whole in better shape than he should have had any right to expect: Well, aside from the badly bruised ribs... not broken though; and that whack on the arm hadn't done the bullet wound any good at all, rather more blood than before and...yes... really rather painful now he thought about it, all that dirt probably isn't helping much either; oh..and the leg...well...the less said about that the better.

In short, he was a mess and he knew it.

Reluctantly he had to accept that presently there was a considerable gulf between what he wanted to do and what he was, in fact, able to do.

Approximating a northerly direction, he trudged in the direction of the road. Anything else could see him easily wandering in circles. A slight disturbance in amongst the trees caught his attention and he stopped short, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, relaxing immediately when he saw his loyal grey mare emerge into view.

It would have been fair to say that both horse and rider were equally pleased to see the other. Particularly as both the elegant inlaid pistol and bags remained on her saddle where they'd been left.

Aramis removed the water skin from its hook and took a much-needed drink before examining the horse's injury. He was relieved that blood loss had been minimal and the groove carved along her flank was only superficial. The ball had nestled just under her skin at the end of the wound and would have to be removed as soon as possible however its position shouldn't make it too difficult a task.

Anxious not to frighten the already agitated animal further, he secured her reins to a tree and, gathering the required items from his saddlebag, set about making her more comfortable. As he thought she would, she fidgeted when he touched the source of her distress but, with continuous soothing words mollifying her slightly, he was able to gently manipulate the intrusive object and ease the ball back out of the wound to the point where he could simply remove it with his fingers.

Blood oozed from the newly exposed injury, though not prolifically, and he allowed it to flow a few moments to cleanse and, hopefully, flush out any debris before plugging the hole in her flesh with a small wad of clean linen: He did not dare apply any alcohol to the wound for fear of startling her further. He knew the cloth would not remain secure for long and there was no way to ensure it did so but, with the bleeding relatively minor, he hoped it would allow some clotting to take place at least.

Having done what he could to make the horse more comfortable, he turned his attention to his own wounds; whilst he didn't really have the time to spare, pragmatism dictated that continuing to ignore them would be counter-productive and leave him excessively vulnerable should, or rather when, he next ran into Climence and her men.

Hands, rinsed with a little of the water to remove the mix of mud and blood, revealed only minor abrasions, nothing to worry about. He braced himself to check the more pressing injuries.

For his own peace of mind, he reloaded the ornate pistol and laid it within easy reach, also removing his belt to leave his sword equally accessible. Whilst he was probably as secure as he was going to be anywhere for the moment, he worked as quickly as possible, removing no more clothing than strictly necessary to allow access to the significant wounds which he could no longer neglect.

The injury to his leg was unpleasant but the bleeding was slow and not excessive. Aware he didn't have a great deal of water to spare, he rinsed it with just a little to give him a clear view of what he was dealing with and , when a visual inspection revealed no obvious dirt or debris, doused it from the contents of the small bottle of alcohol he carried for such incidents.

As he was threading a needle to close the tear to his flesh, he spotted a small vial of a curious dark green liquid. He'd acquired this herbal concoction from a healer living among travellers they'd encountered some months back and it had, as she'd assured him it would, proved effective in helping ward off infections. Its use, however, was quite unpopular due to the fact it stained skin around the wound for weeks after healing was complete and smelled truly foul.

However, in this particular case, neither of those things was of any concern so Aramis chose to use it on the open wound prior to stitching.

Dripping just a small amount on to the exposed muscle reminded him instantly of the other reason it was so unpopular: It stung like the very devil! It took considerable self-control not to alert every living being in a one mile radius to his presence.

As the exceptionally unpleasant feeling abated, he inhaled and exhaled deeply to clear his head trying to convince himself that the benefits of having done that would be reaped in due course and trying to forget that he'd have to endure the experience again shortly when he tackled the, arguably, worse wound on his arm, one-handed.

Once his vision had cleared, it was a relatively simple task to stitch up the open wound and dress it. Certainly, compared to what had gone before, the needle piercing his flesh was a minimal discomfort.

A dressing applied and the leg bandaged, Aramis felt a whole lot more at ease as he was now able, at least, to put his trousers back on: Defending himself without said garment wasn't a wholly unknown experience but he'd usually had a lot more fun getting into those situations in the first place. He smiled ruefully at the thought before the sickening, dull pain from his arm reminded him of what he had to do next.

Closer inspection revealed that his arm, as suspected, had fared worse. The additional blow sustained had aggravated the wound plus it had been far more susceptible to ingress of dirt during his climb. He cautiously risked as much water as he could spare to remove as much as possible of the dirt knowing that he'd need to use the compound more liberally this time as it was unlikely he'd removed all possible sources of infection in this case. Steeling himself, he dealt with the injury as quickly as possible and, eventually, had it stitched as effectively as he could hope to achieve under the circumstances.

Feeling quite sick once the process of dressing the wound was completed, he donned his coat and weapons before forcing himself to eat a little of the food stored in the saddlebags and drinking a good proportion of the water he had left to wash it down.

By the time the pair were ready to get underway again, he estimated Climence, Bouchier and the others must have gained the best part of two hours on him. Mounting carefully to avoid unnecessary contact with the mare's wound, they set off moving carefully, but with as much speed as they could muster, through the forest and back toward the road.

The amount of trampled undergrowth created during his earlier pursuit made finding the path back relatively straightforward and it wasn't too long before he saw the fallen tree they'd cleared in escaping the earlier ambush. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine as he recalled the whole experience.

Approaching cautiously, remembering Climence's statement that they'd need to "clear up", he was aware of the deathly stillness that seemed to pervade the area; it seemed that, assuming they'd originally come back to this point, they had most certainly moved on now. He fervently hoped that, if they'd moved on to L'Ensors, young Bastien would have the sense to stay well away from them.

It was while he was reassuring himself that the youngster would be smart enough to stay out of the way that he noticed something very familiar just this side of the tree; his hat. Whilst it had hardly been his priority in the last couple of hours, the memory of losing it as they'd leaped for their lives earlier flooded back to him.

" _Nice job tidying up..._ " he inwardly remarked, dismounting to collect the cherished item.

The hat duly dusted off and back in its rightful place, he chose to lead the horse around the obstacle and noted that the man he'd shot's body had been removed though the marks on the ground where he'd fallen remained visible alongside multiple footprints.

Not so, Edouard. His body laid to one side of the road almost exactly where it had fallen although, Aramis noted, his weapons had been taken.

Confident those who'd done this were long gone, the musketeer took a few moments to offer a prayer for his fallen comrade before arranging the body more appropriately and covering the young man's face with the blanket from his bedding roll.

It was as he stirred himself from his contemplation that the anomaly struck him. Walking over to where he clearly remembered the other man he'd shot falling, he noted this body too had been taken: This was perplexing.

He sat himself on a rock at the roadside trying to work out the rationale behind their actions: He needed to figure out exactly what they were doing before he could make any decision as to what he was to do next.

They'd made the effort to come back and clear away their own dead but left a body of, someone they assumed to be, a musketeer in clear view of a road that attracted at least some amount of regular traffic.

They had to know it would not be that long before the body was discovered. It could never look good for any nobleman to have a member of the King's elite guard killed on his lands and, whilst that specifically may of no import to Climence and the others, it would almost certainly spark a massive search throughout the area increasing their likelihood of getting caught particularly if anyone had seen them...

Unless...they didn't intend being seen.

Mounting his horse once more, he rode slowly up to the start of where the men had placed themselves to carry out the ambush that morning. From height, he could easily see that from this point onwards there were no recent tracks on the dusty road surface to suggest any number of riders...they hadn't headed to L'Ensors...at least, not this way.

Backtracking about ten minutes the other way, the direction of the Chateau, he saw what he was looking for; recent evidence of several horses leaving the road and re-entering the woods.

" _They have a way off the estate which means no-one will see them and the Duke will be held responsible for the death of a musketeer on his land. They've taken their own dead to ensure nothing leads back to them._ "

Regular trips to estates and locations throughout this area had left the musketeer with a good grasp of local geography and he knew Auchonne was a good two days ride to the south-west of Bellacoure. Given some idea of the extensive nature of this area of woodland, if Climence and Bouchier had a way through the forest rather than round it, there was every chance they could complete the majority of their journey without attracting the attention of anyone.

Aramis found himself in a quandary as to his best course of action.

Whilst his horse was coping well with her injury she could not, nevertheless, carry the weight of two and he was very reluctant to leave Edouard's body untended any longer, not only out of respect for the man but also because it would cause any amount of problems if the body was discovered before he was able to properly raise the alarm.

His present location was, approximately, the same distance from both the Chateau and L'Ensors; whilst the Duke did have some armed guards, they were more of the type suitable for dealing with an occasional miscreant who might disturb the peace of the estate rather than a mission of this nature. L'Ensors offered even less in terms of resource but was, at least, heading in the right direction.

In full knowledge that he was well overdrawn on his quota of divine providence already today, he couldn't help uttering a wistful prayer for just a little further intervention if at all possible...?

As he was returning to the fallen cadet's body, a rustle in the trees to his left made him reach for his pistol only to see Edouard's black horse trot from its hiding place, snorting in recognition of its stable mate: Aramis reckoned he was going to need to take a loan from Athos to pay for all the candles he'd have to light for this bit of good fortune.

The black horse was uninjured and, in addition to Edouard's bed roll and provisions, also carried his extra shot and powder. Aramis made a mental note to remind Treville to reinforce to the cadets that these should always be carried on one's person in the event you were separated from your horse, however, given the fortuitous nature of this particular breach of protocol, he figured he couldn't really complain and added it to his own supply.

His course of action now clear, he set about making sure he made best use of those resources available to him.

Swapping his own, familiar, saddle and all the combined supplies over to the black horse, he prepared to place Edouard's body on the back of the grey mare.

Bereft of any actual writing materials, he used a square of the linen he used for wound dressings and the remainder of the green concoction in his medical bag to improvise, shaping a few letters on the cloth using a soft twig: The substance bled through the material easily so he was forced to keep the letters large and the message simple. In the end it was just the one word but, in the right hands, it might just be the only one needed.

As gently and respectfully as possible, he pushed the note into Edouard's lifeless hands and secured them into his doublet, keeping them firmly crossed on his chest. He was about to lift the body when it occurred to him that the mare might be intercepted before she got to L'Ensors, or maybe Bastien wouldn't be there when she arrived or no-one would believe him if he was...he couldn't fail to acknowledge the tenuous nature of this particular part of his plan but he could, he realised, give it a better chance of success with one more thing.

He glanced at his pauldron; the fleur de lys was instantly recognisable to everyone and should ensure, whoever encountered the mare, that his message, such as it was, got forwarded to the right place.

It felt wrong and almost as if he was sacrificing part of his own identity to remove it but it was the only way. He unbuckled the embossed leather from his shoulder and reattached it to the vacant buckle on Edouard's cadet uniform.

Hefting the body over the mare's saddle was difficult, his left arm being of little use for anything so strenuous, but he eventually succeeded, securing the corpse with the man's own belt and a short length of rope. Checking Edouard's hands were going to remain as placed, and the note along with them, he covered the body as well as possible before sending the mare on her way, hopeful she'd seek out the village and the young boy who treated her so well.

Watching her retreat into the distance from the vantage point of his newly acquired mount, Aramis could only hope his famed luck would hold as he set off into the woods in pursuit of his quarry.

TBC


	9. Chapter 8

_Time to start moving this story towards a conclusion and to close the gap between the two story lines._

 _I can only reiterate my appreciation for everyone who's taking the time to review, follow and read this story._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 8**

Treville regarded the small piece of cloth questioningly.

"There's no doubt that Aramis wrote this?" He briefly considered this may be a setup of some kind.

"None!" Porthos was adamant. "I'd recognise the smell of that stuff anywhere...glad he finally found a better use for it than painting us with it," he winked at Athos, who winced at the memory of the substance being applied to an injury: As he recalled, he'd take his chances with an infection rather than have that particular treatment again.

Taking the cloth, Treville exited the barn, followed closely by Athos and Porthos. The latter looked like he was ready to rip every stone and blade of grass between here and Auchonne apart if it meant finding his friend; the former, more reserved and outwardly impassive, contemplated what may have happened in the intervening period since the note was originally written

"D'Assierre?" The Captain was all business. "Auchonne is close to two days ride from here, I believe?" The man nodded in confirmation. "Is this the only road or are there other ways out?

"It is the only road and the bridge is the only way across the river. The only safe way."

Bastien looked like there was something he wanted to say, hovering at the periphery of the conversation, but his grandfather silenced him with a stern look.

"Why do you ask?" The old man asked the Captain.

Treville was silent. He had been fairly sure that would be the answer. He was aware that, to the east and south, the estate was bordered by a major river. It was possible someone could leave via the hills on the north-western side but that would add several days to their journey if heading south-east; he doubted anyone who'd committed murder would want to delay that much knowing their crime could be discovered at any time.

Realising D'Assierre was awaiting a response, he spoke:

"We have reason to think that the men who did this are heading to Auchonne. Have there been any other strangers passing through any part of the estate in the last day that you're aware of?"

"No one has reported seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary since your men passed through two days ago." The old man looked thoughtful as he tried to think of something useful; Bellacoure, even with the distance between some of the farm dwellings, was a tightly knit community and anything unusual was usually common knowledge within a remarkably short time.

"Grandfather..." Bastien hissed. The frustration clear on his face.

"Please Bastien, we're talking..." it was clear D'Assierre's patience was wearing thin but the boy was not to be put off.

"Captain Treville. I know something you need to hear." He pushed in between the two men.

Slightly annoyed by the youngster's impertinence but inclined to be tolerant in view of his previous conduct, the Captain nodded to him.

"All right. As quickly as you can please, Bastien."

"It's not the only way across the river. I know, I've ridden it and that's the way they've got in without being seen."

"What do you mean?" His grandfather's tone was dismissive and he was sure the Captain and his men were not in the mood for any childish fantasies; he was surprised Bastien had been indulged as much as he had. Whilst he had no doubt these musketeers were not a threat to peaceful civilians normally, he recognised the tension coursing through the two accompanying the Captain and saw no reason to try their patience.

"With your permission, Captain?" Athos' request held that aristocratic tone that strongly suggested he'd do it anyway regardless of any assent and was just maintaining appearances by asking.

Treville nodded, realising it was pointless to do otherwise.

"Your information's been good before. You've earned the right to be heard. Tell us what you know." Athos' expression suggested he would not be amused if this was some wild story or old wives' tale.

Looking straight back at him with a confident expression that spoke volumes as to the youngster's absolute conviction that he was right, Bastien replied:

"About a year ago, I figured that there must have been a way on to the estate before the bridge was built...after all, the chateau's lots older..."

"The bridge was built almost 50 years ago," D'Assierre interjected. "The old Duke had it built after the ford south of here kept flooding. Any paths to it will have grown over or been buried by landslides over the years, the woods are full of underground streams and tributaries..."

"Not completely. You can still get to it and there are the remains of a track in the woods." The urgency in Bastien's tone suggested he would not be silenced. "It's difficult in parts but it is still passable." He turned to Athos, pleading to be believed. "I know you can get through, I've ridden it and I've crossed the river at the ford," he concluded triumphantly, relieved to finally express what he wanted to say.

"You can take us to the other side of the river where the ford is? How long would it take to get there?" Porthos asked.

"It would take too long to reach it backtracking from the road. I can do much better than that. No-one knows these woods and all the ways through like I do. I think..."

Bastien's words were starting to tumble out excitedly and it was clear he fully intended to do more than just offer directions. He was cut off by Treville.

"One moment please." Turning to D'Assierre, remembering the boy was still a minor. "Monsieur, do you give your permission for your grandson to act as guide? I would like to assure you that his safety will be of primary importance and he will be expected to obey any orders given to him in order to ensure his well-being." The last part was as much for Bastien's benefit as his grandfather's and reinforced by a uncompromising glare in his direction, to which the boy nodded, chastened.

D'Assierre gave a sigh that indicated he no longer had the energy to keep up with his impetuous young charge. With some, understandable, reluctance but a more significant amount of resignation, he responded:

"If I don't let him go he'll probably only run off on his own anyway but, for what it's worth, you have my permission, Captain. Thank you for asking."

Treville nodded his appreciation.

"Bastien, please give us all the information you have and any possible ways in which we might intercept someone following this route. We..." he stressed the syllable, "...will decide the appropriate course of action to take."

Bastien indicated he understood precisely what was being asked and, using a stick to draw lines in the dust on the ground before him, began to explain the layout of the land and all the routes and pitfalls within it.

Within a short time, the options had been examined and a plan agreed.

"Monsieur D'Assierre," Treville turned to face the man. "Your grandson will guide my men with a view to locating and apprehending the criminals who did this. A cart should be here shortly to collect the cadet's body, I will be returning to Paris with them."

Addressing his men who were already preparing their horses to depart:

"I intend to tell His Majesty that we are in the process of recovering the Duke's letter and, if possible, identifying who is responsible. That is your primary objective..."

Athos and Porthos managed passable impressions that it was theirs as well.

"...of course, the safe return of our missing musketeer would also be appreciated."

"Yes, Captain," they concurred with considerably more enthusiasm.

Treville inwardly shrugged as he watched them continue their preparations, packing some bread Bastien had secured from one of the village women into their saddle bags: He was well aware that their priority was entirely the reverse of what he'd just said but, at least, he'd done his duty by stating it.

The Captain had already seen his men and their young guide depart and begin their cross-country ride toward the dense forest when the cart sent from the garrison appeared in the distance.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _23 hours earlier._

Aramis had followed the trail of broken foliage into the woods. His wounds were uncomfortable but not overly bothersome and, with his path reasonably clear for the moment, he travelled as a fast as was practicable, trying to close the gap on Climence and her men.

He'd been moving through the woods for a little under an hour when he smelt smoke and dismounted to investigate the source. He didn't have to look far as the raiders, clearly of the conviction that they were entirely alone in the depths of the forest, weren't troubling themselves to be particularly discreet.

Observing from just behind a small ridge, the musketeer could see they'd built a fire and were cooking a couple of rabbits they'd trapped.

Two of the subordinates were finishing burying something at the far end of the clearing, presumably the dead bodies they'd collected from the site of the original ambush, while the other two seemed to have been ordered to replenish the water skins for everyone and ensure the food was cooked.

Climence and Bouchier were content to give their instructions and supervise what everyone else was doing, a behaviour that was drawing noticeably sullen looks from the others. One, in particular, was drinking heavily from a water skin but, from his increasingly over-exaggerated movements, Aramis felt it safe to assume it wasn't water he was imbibing.

Sure enough, by the time the simple repast had been consumed, the man's voice had risen enough for some of what he said to be heard even up on the ridge; from the slight slur and aggressive tone of his voice it seemed that he was more than a little inebriated and less than happy about their losses and treatment in general.

His conduct was rewarded by a pistol being drawn on him by Bouchier whilst, from Climence's gestures, it was safe to infer the choice he was being offered was the kind where he'd not live long if he did anything other than what he was told. The man's urgently glanced requests for support from his fellows were met with uncomfortable foot-shuffling and obvious attempts to look anywhere but at him: It seemed their desire to get paid, for the moment, outweighed any other loyalties they may have.

Left with little choice but to back down, the slightly swaying man eventually did so. The others mounted their horses and it appeared that the punishment for his noncompliance was to douse the fire and clear the camp single-handed: The opportunity offered by one of the men being isolated in this way did not escape the musketeer who slithered down carefully from his vantage point.

The others had already been gone for ten minutes and the sound of their horses had faded in the distance by the time the recalcitrant man had finished the task he'd been given. Swinging himself up into his saddle rather inelegantly, he pulled unnecessarily hard on the animal's reins, obviously frustrated at his situation and taking it out on the unfortunate beast who fidgeted unhappily under his control.

With his expression an attempt at defiance that only served to make him look even more drunk, he kicked his heels into the horse's side to force it to move forward and catch up with the others. The path from the clearing was narrow and rough and, despite his urgings, his mount demonstrated considerably more sense than he did in navigating the awkward passage: The man remained caught up in his own irritation and was preoccupied enough with cursing pretty much everything in existence that he failed to notice a figure slip from behind a tree behind him only to deliver a swift upward motion under his right foot, successfully upending him over the left side of the horse.

His inattention and alcohol-slowed reactions meant he failed to make any effort to break his own fall and Aramis noted a satisfying crack as the man's head connected with the ground.

The already agitated horse, skittered away without its rider and galloped off down the recently flattened path; one quick glance at the man and, specifically, the unnatural angle of his head to his body, was enough to convince the musketeer that no further action was required.

He briefly entertained the idea of taking the pistol still tucked into the man's belt, he badly needed another weapon, but decided against doing anything that might make this look anything other than an accident: Whilst the odds against him were starting to look a little better, he wasn't ready for them to suspect they were anything other than alone in the woods as yet.

Dropping back into the undergrowth and retrieving his horse a short distance away, Aramis filled the time while he waited for the others to realise they were a man short, by refilling his water skins from the stream they themselves had used earlier.

Sure enough, it wasn't too long before, from his sheltered point a little further down the ridge where he'd spied on the group earlier, he heard the sound of horses, raised voices and recriminations.

Happy to have further eroded their morale and created a small extra delay to their journey while they disposed of another fallen man, he waited patiently for them to deal with the problem he'd given them before resuming his pursuit once they, finally, set off again.

" _...and then there were five.._ "

TBC


	10. Chapter 9

_Well we're getting there. My grateful thanks to everyone's who's left a review, is reading or following this meandering story._

 _I know this chapter won't be everyone's cup of tea but it does, finally, get us to the point where everyone's in the same time-frame._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 9**

They were well into mid-afternoon and Aramis had come to realise they were, in fact, heading in a south-westerly direction and had been for some time.

The reason for the diversion became evident just a short while later when he detected the sound of running water in the distance; clearly they'd had to travel back on themselves in order to cross the tributary river, the one that had so nearly claimed him earlier that day, safely.

He smirked slightly realising that being forced to double-back in this way would have cost them further hours and prolong the amount of time they remained on the Duke's lands. He knew only too well there would be virtually no chance of him continuing to follow them so closely should they reach the open road to Auchonne.

He was careful to fall back deeper into the cover of the woods as the ground opened out on the approach to the water way: At this point, the river was broad and shallow but, almost immediately after, dropped sharply to the fast running, deep waters he'd seen earlier.

Seeing how exposed they were as they crossed caused him to curse his lack of weaponry; had he been better armed he felt sure he could have mounted a creditable ambush single-handed from his well-protected vantage point however, for now, he could only observe in frustration as they, and the numerous spare horses they now were now leading alongside them, made it to the other side and up the low, muddy embankment.

Giving them adequate time to disappear back into the woods before he crossed, only too aware of his own vulnerability while in open view, he picked up the tracks made by so many horses with ease and continued to shadow them at a distance. They headed south initially before, finally, joining what was clearly a largely disused track carved between the trees, narrowed by years of growth on each side but still adequately passable to ride two abreast in most places: This was clearly the way to their alternate river crossing and exit from the estate.

With so many beasts being led and the narrowness of the track, in parts, their progress was considerably slower than they'd, most likely, needed or wanted it to be and Aramis was grateful that, as the path wound to avoid natural obstacles, it allowed him to keep up with them whilst using the natural cover to avoid detection: They were focussed on moving forward and had no reason to suspect they were being followed.

As the sun began to sink rapidly he gauged that the track was now leading in a generally south-easterly direction which, if he'd judged the distance travelled with any degree of accuracy, meant the ford would, most likely, be a lot closer to Auchonne than he'd like them to get. However, for now, their progress was halted by the failing light and, before too much longer, they pulled off the track into a clearing and set a fire.

Unable to do the same for fear of detection, Aramis secured his horse some distance away from their camp ensuring it was downwind of their own tethered beasts so that, should the animal make any noise during the night, it would be unlikely to draw any attention. He then removed his bag of provisions and blanket from its saddle and located himself a sheltered spot on a nearby ridge, obscured from the view of anyone passing below by brush and shrubs.

His body, wounded arm and leg in particular, ached with fatigue and every sore muscle from the day's exertions pleaded for a warm bath, a hot meal and a soft bed, none of which he'd be likely to see anytime soon. Twilight hindered all but the most cursory of examinations to establish the condition of his injuries; a touch suggested no wetness on either bandage that might indicate any further bleeding but the area around the stitching on his arm felt warmer than he would like, even through the dressing. He could only hope the following day would offer a better opportunity to check its state.

Careful to not make any noise himself, Aramis' proximity to the camp and the stillness of the night allowed him to hear a good part of what was being said among the group. Climence appeared better tempered than she had earlier, presumably feeling the worst was behind them, and was reassuring them all as to how wealthy they would be once the job was completed; her men greeted her attempt at encouragement with equal amounts of enthusiasm and suspicion, clearly not fully convinced as to any degree of loyalty within the group.

Confident their fire would ward off any smaller animals who might be curious, this particular forest being thankfully free of larger predators, the group settled down to sleep with Bouchier electing to take the first watch. It seemed to Aramis, judging by the way he announces this, his decision was more due to distrust of his travelling companions rather than fear of external forces: A brief glance over the top of the ridge confirmed that all in the camp, Climence included, noticeably had their pistols close to hand even as they rested.

All hopes of mounting any kind of sneak attack during the night extinguished, Aramis wrapped himself in his too thin blanket and fought to push away thoughts of being alone and cold amongst the trees. Ensuring his weapons were easily accessible, he spent the night dozing fitfully and uncomfortably, awakening frequently to check all was still well.

Unsurprisingly, the musketeer gave up any pretence of sleeping well before dawn, the chill of the early morning seeping into his every pore during the small hours and forcing him to move in order to generate a little body heat and offer some relief to painful and stiff muscles. Stealthily he climbed the ridge and, able to see their outlines from the light cast by the last dying embers of the fire, reassured himself that everyone remained in the camp: The sound of snoring indicated that Bouchier's replacement on watch was taking his duties very seriously.

Anxious to move before they began to stir, sure that Climence at least would be keen to make up some of the time lost the previous day, Aramis gathered his things and moved to retrieve his horse so that he could retreat to a safe distance behind the camp until they were ready to move on.

Whether as a result of the incident the day before or just Climence's shrill orders to get moving as quickly as possible, disappointingly, none of the remaining men isolated themselves sufficiently from the rest of the group to offer an opportunity for any further accidents to occur so, frustrated, Aramis had to settle for resuming his patient and wearing pursuit as they got underway again just a little after full daylight was reached.

The morning dragged and he found himself struggling to concentrate as mile after mile of woodland was covered with no opportunities to do anything to further encumber their progress or reduce their numbers presented themselves.

Aramis found his concentration waning as tiredness began to overtake him and the constant aches and pains, that seemed to permeate every part of his body, required more and more of his attention. Gradually, the feeling of inactivity, one that never sat well, threatened to push him to take risks he couldn't afford and it took all his willpower to resist as he tried to remain confident his chances would come if he could just remain focussed in the meantime.

He was just starting to wonder about the fate of his cherished grey mare when two gunshots rent the air just up ahead, coming from where the group would be.

Suddenly fully alert, he drew his own weapon as a natural reaction rather than any real concern the shots had been aimed at him, the sound clearly indicated air shots, and drew his horse back further into cover while he ascertained the reason for firing.

Momentarily he heard the thunder of hooves and, coming back down the track towards him, five rider-less horses galloped past his hiding place, panicked and running blindly.

As they passed he noticed their tack had been removed: They'd released the spare horses knowing that, by the time the hapless animals found their way back to any kind of civilisation and aroused suspicions, they themselves would be long gone.

Aramis didn't need telling this also meant that the group would be moving faster now.

Wasting no further time, he urged his horse on to pick up their pursuit realising that, with a clear, faster ride today, Climence and her men could be very close to achieving their goal if he wasn't able to slow them up or stop them completely.

Sadly, his seemingly futile pursuit continued in much the same vein as previously albeit more precipitous. Even when they stopped to eat, Climence made sure Bouchier allowed no-one out of sight of one of the others and the meal was a hastily-made affair of some cooked roots sourced close to their temporary camp: The resulting repast smelt so foul that, when a waft of the stew found its way to Aramis, resting downwind of them, he didn't even feel envious and was satisfied consuming a little of what he had left from Mme Mechaux's generous provisions, choosing not to dwell on the precise reason why he had so much in the first place.

Resigning himself that there'd be no chance to remove another of the men from the number he faced during this break, he used the brief respite to rip through the sleeve covering his injured arm and replace the dressing, applying the little he had left of the unpleasant herbal compound over the inflamed-looking stitches while he did so. The leg wound, he noted, didn't feel so bad in comparison and he was grateful for that fact as he had no choice but to leave that injury untouched for the time being.

Having worked quickly and efficiently, a skill he'd acquired as a result of more practice in such endeavours than he'd have ever wanted, the painful stinging to the wound had already subsided when the sound of horses indicated the group were ready to move on again.

Resuming his tedious exercise in shadowing, Aramis was forced to admit to himself that the time was rapidly approaching when he may have no other choice but to take action that would reveal his presence in order to stop them crossing the river with that letter.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _Just outside L'Ensors. Same time_.

Bastien led Athos and Porthos away from the village, diagonally across the recently harvested fields and along rough tracks heading towards the woodlands that carpeted the land up to the horizon.

As he'd explained, the forest was bisected by a large tributary which fed into the major river that bordered a good part of the estate: The track they needed to get to was the other side of this river and he'd been successful in convincing them that he knew a way across the south-eastern corner of the estate that would get them within a couple of hours of the ford in a fraction of the time it would take if following the track from the area closer to the chateau.

As they rode he explained that, in recent years, since his grandfather's failing health had limited his opportunities to earn money, he'd supplemented their food supplies by running errands across the Duke's lands and surrounding areas in exchange for things they needed. As a result of this, and his own naturally excellent sense of direction, he'd discovered a good many shortcuts of which even those who'd lived there all their lives were unaware. This allowed him to complete his tasks in much less time than anyone else would have been able and he frequently found his services in demand.

He was taking the two musketeers on one of those very shortcuts at this moment in time and estimated it should get them close to the tributary by nightfall:

"We might even improve on that if we keep going and don't stop."

"Will it get us to the track before the men who stole the letter get there?" Porthos all but growled. His growing frustration that they were not sure if Aramis was even still alive was now his overriding preoccupation.

"I can't say for sure," Bastien admitted, unfazed by the tone of the question, "but I know that track's hard to get to further back towards the chateau so it probably would have taken some time. If they've already passed by when we get there, it'll be easy to see their tracks, no-one else uses that way."

"That will have to do, I suppose." Athos' knuckles were whitened by the taut grip he had on his reins. Like Porthos he was angered by the fact that they had no way of knowing if their best was going to be good enough or even if their course of action was the correct one.

However, he was aware that to over-tire their horses with so many hours ahead of them would be counter-productive so, reluctantly, he forced himself to be satisfied with simply urging his mount to pick up the pace just a little more while they remained on open ground.

Bastien wasn't oblivious to the tension of the men who rode with him and felt all too keenly the weight of his responsibility he had to guide their path as accurately as possible: The question "what if you're wrong?" kept playing in his mind but he did his best to push any doubts aside, his familiarity with all parts of the estate convincing him there was no other logical place the people they sought could be.

He just hoped he could get them all there in time.

TBC


	11. Chapter 10

_From the speed this one got written you may guess that I've been waiting a while to finally write this chapter...and then it turned out completely different to my original plan. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it._

 _As ever, my grateful thanks to my stalwart reviewers and appreciation for their support. Sorry I've not been able to reply personally, I got a bit preoccupied with this._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 10**

 _Dawn, the next day._

As the sky started to show the first hint of approaching sun from the east, Aramis had already uncurled his stiff and aching limbs from the awkward but, ultimately, safe resting place he'd found for the night and was waiting impatiently for enough light to act.

Much as he'd not wanted to spend another night in this forest, he'd been relieved when it became obvious the ford would not be reached the previous evening and the disgruntled group had been, reluctantly, forced to set up camp once again.

In a seeming attempt to reduce the agitation among them, Bouchier had been very clear in stating that there'd be little more than an hour's ride in the morning to get to the ford and, once across, Auchonne was no more than a few hours travel on the other side: Climence had retrieved a couple of bottles of wine from her bags and distributed them among the men as a gesture of appeasement and, as a result, all had slept well.

Aramis knew he had to take this opportunity: He could not let them get across the river.

As the watery early daylight crept through the leafy cover, he picked his way carefully through the trees and approached the tethered horses, all still saddled, standing patiently just a little way from the clearing where only the sound of gentle snores could be heard.

The animals eyed him curiously but only snorted gently as he patted the first two he encountered, moving between them and loosening each one's saddle in turn. Ducking under the reins holding them, the next one received the same treatment and seemed appreciative of the increased comfort the action created.

He was about to move on again when a rustle of bushes nearby caused him to still. One of the men, still clearly only half-awake, had staggered into the undergrowth a short distance from the clearing to relieve his bladder. Completing his business, he made to return to the camp only to find himself pushed against a tree, a hand clamped over his mouth and the small dagger Aramis always carried on his belt thrust between his ribs. His last look was one of shock and surprise; he had no time to cry out.

Normally always one to preserve life whenever possible, killing an unarmed man in this way did not sit well with the musketeer but, unfortunately, he had no other choice in this case as any attempt to solely incapacitate the unfortunate soul risked making too much noise. As the body slumped in his grasp, it occurred to him that this offered an additional opportunity he'd not previously considered.

Checking the others remained fully asleep, he hefted the body over his good shoulder and covered the short distance to the horses within moments.

As he had done with Edouard's body, although with considerably less respect, the corpse was laid over the saddle of one of the horses whose tack had not been tampered with. Loosening the lead rein used to tether the animal, he tied it around one of the man's feet, threaded the leather underneath and secured it to his hands on the other side.

First leading the horse a little way from the others and closer to his own mount, he then slapped the animal soundly on the rump causing it to startle and run off down the track; the uncontrolled weight on its back only added to its panic.

Getting back on his own horse, Aramis moved to retreat as quickly as possible in the opposite direction as the whinnying of the other horses, alarmed by the sudden action and disappearance of one of their number, caused stirrings within the camp followed by loud cries.

Bouchier was first to arrive at the spot where the horses were tethered and, unable to distinguish anything much in the still weak light, fired both his pistols, one in the direction of each of the two different sources of movement and sound.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Porthos was already alert and starting to clear the rudimentary camp they'd set up the night before as the thin light seeped into the clearing, anxious to be underway as soon as possible.

They'd travelled as far as they could the previous day and Bastien had assured them that the river crossing was no more than a few minutes ride south of their position. However, with the failing light, there had been no possibility of making the crossing safely before nightfall.

Porthos knew he'd hardly slept and one look at his equally taut fellow musketeer told him much the same was true of Athos.

Bastien, to his credit, was quite attuned to their feelings and was already, silently, repacking his blanket.

The sound of two gunshots, some way distant but nonetheless unmistakable in the still morning air, had both musketeers instantly reaching to pull themselves into the saddle. Their young guide reacting to and following their movements unquestioningly.

"We need to get across that river...now!"

Bastien nodded his understanding to Athos and led the way to the crossing with as much urgency as the terrain and available light allowed.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Back at the clearing, everything was chaos.

"What happened? Where's Martin?" Climence demanded of Bouchier.

"He's run out on us..." Bouchier growled in response.

"Why now? We're about to get out of here and get paid..."

"Perhaps he didn't fancy being hung for killing musketeers..." one of the others volunteered in a surly tone.

"If he goes to the Duke we'll all hang." Climence was wild-eyed and furious. "What are you waiting for? Get after him! Which way did he go?"

"There were two..." Bouchier seemed confused, "...I'll swear there were two.."

"Don't be ridiculous." Climence screamed. "Faure! Perrot! Get on those horses and stop him!"

The two men went to mount the horses nearest to them and both ended up, unceremoniously dumped back on the ground in short order as their saddles slipped. Bouchier was still preoccupied trying to reload both pistols he'd discharged, fumbling his way through the process, his head still foggy from too much wine the night before.

Climence's level of ire hit new heights, screeching every term of abuse she could think of, she grabbed the next horse along in the line, quickly checking and tightening its saddle:

"Here, take this one and get going," she thrust the reins at the shaken and bewildered Perrot who'd managed to get back on his feet, "which way Bouchier?"

Her partner, who had finally managed to reload one pistol and was struggling with the second, looked at her blankly and then indicated the two directions in which he'd fired earlier.

Exasperated, Climence directed Perrot back towards the track as Bouchier was indicating with his right hand:

"Find him and kill him if you don't want to hang" She ordered. The man nodded and headed off.

Faure had managed to re-tighten the saddle on his original horse and was now, finally, mounted. Climence sent him in the other direction with the same order and he set off.

She hurried over to the remaining two horses and began to check the saddles. Without bothering to look at Bouchier she ordered:

"Get our stuff, we're leaving."

He looked askance at her then, knowing better than to argue, he holstered his second reloaded pistol and hurried back into the clearing. Within a very few minutes they were heading on down the track and towards the ford.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Bastien led the way to the river with the same competence he'd shown throughout their journey. Leading them down the shallow embankment a short way, he indicated where a bank of silt and mud, accumulated over years, had created a causeway of sorts allowing them to cross, carefully, one at a time. From there it was just a few minutes ride till they emerged into what had, once, clearly been a regularly used track.

Bastien immediately scanned the ground underfoot for any sign of recent traffic, locating evidence of multiple hoof prints, and signalled that they should follow the south-easterly path.

They'd not been moving long when Athos called them to a halt and listened intently. The sound of galloping hooves advancing on them from the opposite direction had caught his attention. He and Porthos both drew their pistols, ordering Bastien to take cover immediately: True to his word the youngster did as he was told without protest and guided his horse off the track and into the trees.

The single horse came into view within moments, a body slung and tied across its back. Seeing the two riders ahead caused it to rear up in its panic, causing the corpse to slide further down its back creating even more alarm in the frightened creature.

Re-holstering their weapons, Athos and Porthos used their own horses either side to bring the animal under control before taking its reins and leading it to one side of the track where they dismounted to tether it and remove the man's body which they laid down a short distance away.

"He's not been dead long." Porthos observed.

"Killed with a knife, so who was shooting?"

The sound of another rider approaching caused them both to step back into the middle of the track, raising their pistols as they did so.

Whatever Perrot anticipated finding in the course of the pursuit with which Climence had charged him, it would be fair to say it wasn't the sight of two fully-armed musketeers blocking his path and his erstwhile comrade lying dead at the side of the road.

He pulled to a halt even before they had any chance to demand he did so and raised his hands, clearly of the impression that the men before him were the one's responsible for Martin's death.

"Don't kill me..." he pleaded, clearly terrified.

The musketeers exchanged a glance, masking their amusement admirably. If a simple misunderstanding could make the man so compliant it seemed pointless to disabuse him of the notion when it served their purpose so well.

Athos instructed the man to dismount and he almost fell off in his rush to obey, dispensing with his weapons as he did so.

Perrot, who seemed determined to come clean without any need for prompting, immediately started to babble looking nervously from one pistol trained on him to the other the whole time:

"It wasn't me that shot the musketeer, the one back on the road. It was Bouchier or one of the others..."

"How can you be so sure?" Athos asked wryly.

"I'm a terrible shot." Perrot admitted, obviously of the opinion that while he was talking they wouldn't shoot. "I wouldn't have got involved if I'd known...they just said we were going to rob a couple of messengers...said nothing about musketeers..."

"What about the other one?" Porthos managed to ask.

"We didn't kill him..." the man said desperately trying to make the crime he'd been involved in less heinous. "He fell when the ground collapsed...the landslide at the ravine...he was buried, didn't stand a chance...we only wanted him to give us the bag..." his voice tailed off at the look of absolute devastation that had formed on Porthos' face, realising that he'd just confessed to something of which neither of these men had been aware.

Feeling even more intimidated by the silent rage that seemed directed entirely at him than he had before, Perrot looked to offer something else that might help him avoid Martin's fate:

"I know where the letter is. I know who has it and I can take you to them."

Of the two, only Athos was even remotely capable of forming a coherent thought or sentence at that moment. He took a step closer to his visibly trembling friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. Very softly he instructed:

"We will bring those responsible to justice, Porthos. Then we will find him."

With considerable difficulty, Porthos forced himself to focus and slowly nodded his agreement his eyes never leaving Perrot.

Athos, barely containing his own, normally well-buried, emotions found he could easily imagine the pain and grief Porthos was feeling but knew that, in the here and now, they still had a job to do.

"Stand there. Do not move." He instructed the extremely scared-looking man who nodded minutely and would probably have done anything he was told at that moment in time given the stare he was enduring from Porthos.

Collecting their horses from the side of the track, Athos suddenly remembered Bastien. He called the boy's name and realised, as soon as the youngster emerged into the open, that he'd heard everything.

"Go home, Bastien. You'll be back with your grandfather in good time if you leave now. It's no longer safe for you to stay with us. Thank you for your help."

Remembering what he'd promised before they left, Bastien sadly nodded his understanding before getting on his horse. He managed to choke out a simple "I'm sorry" before setting off on his journey back to L'Ensors.

Mounting his own horse and leading the other over to Porthos, whose self-control was holding admirably under the circumstances, Athos trained his pistol on the wretched Perrot while the other musketeer prepared to move on.

"Get on your horse and take us to the people responsible for this. Please be assured that if you are lying or attempt to trick us in any way it will be the last thing you do."

Finally daring to breathe just a little, Perrot clambered back into his saddle and turned back towards the camp he'd left a short time before.

Just as they started to move a single gunshot echoed through the woods...

TBC


	12. Chapter 11

_Go me! Three days, three chapters._

 _Sorry that FF isn't letting me respond to reviews at the moment so I just want to let you know that I'm really grateful to everyone who bothers to leave me feedback._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 11**

Aramis had ridden into the forest with as much speed as the poor light allowed, weaving through the brush and undergrowth to create as clear a trail as possible.

Banking on his adjustments to the horses' tack buying him some breathing space and thinning the numbers potentially capable of pursuing him, he spotted an outline in the distance that might be just what he was looking for.

As the sun fully cleared the horizon, he couldn't resist a small grin: It was perfect for his purposes.

Ensuring his path towards the high ridge would be obvious to all but the poorest of trackers, he slowed his horse as he swung past and used a low branch to hoist himself up and over the top, encouraging the horse to continue its path as he did so: His left arm, particularly, protested this action and a small groan of pain escaped his lips as he felt the beleaguered stitches pull at his flesh.

The horse, accustomed by its training to such eventualities and knowing well enough to remove itself to a safe distance, trotted on a short way before veering out of sight and finding a pleasant spot to graze while waiting for its rider to return.

Faure, had he been given to introspection, would have probably confessed that tracking wasn't a particular talent of his; in fairness, his talents were largely confined to removing rowdy troublemakers from bars when required to do so. He'd been lured into this job by the promise of easy money and had fully regretted his decision ever since those first shots were fired at musketeers, not the ordinary messengers he'd been led to believe they'd be facing.

From that moment on, in his opinion, everything had gone from bad to worse and Martin's early morning flight had only gone to confirm his feelings on the matter: In fact, he wasn't sure if he was following the clear evidence of a horse recently passing through this undergrowth with a view to catching Martin or joining him in his escape; he certainly couldn't find it in himself to blame the man for his decision to quit while he still had a chance.

Watching from his vantage point on the ridge, Aramis found himself mildly amused by the clear lack of enthusiasm in the man's pursuit

"Come on..." he muttered under his breath, "I left a trail a blind man could see...I haven't got all day..."

As he followed the track towards the ridge, Faure had almost completely decided that, once he caught up to Martin, he'd just accompany him wherever he was going and, whatever they did next was...

The next moment his thoughts were interrupted...permanently.

"About time," thought Aramis lowering himself from the ridge as quickly as his increasingly limited strength made possible. Swiftly, he made sure the man was dead and relieved the body of the pistol holstered under its coat. Loath to trust a weapon loaded by anyone other than those in whom he had absolute confidence, he took a moment to carry out a brief inspection of the firearm; he'd seen too many fingers lost to be casual in that regard no matter what the stakes or time constraints.

Having satisfied himself he'd still have all ten digits should he need to use the pistol, he then reloaded his own and holstered both.

Faure's horse, startled by the gunshot, had bolted but the reliable black horse, who'd served him so well these last two days, had merely looked up from its grazing at the noise and was happy to respond as soon as it was called upon by its now familiar rider.

Hauling himself exhaustedly back into the saddle, the musketeer could feel the increased level of pain in his arm in particular and a quick glance through the rent in the leather of his coat, caused when his arm was grazed by the bullet originally, confirmed that at least part of the wound was now bleeding again.

With adrenaline and little else but determination fuelling him, he urged his horse back in the direction of the camp. His only thought getting to the river and preventing that letter getting to its buyer.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Perrot obediently led the way back towards the camp, scarcely daring to risk a look over his shoulder, well aware that both the men following him would have absolutely no qualms about taking his life in an instant.

The ride, at full gallop, took little time and the briefest of looks at the man's aghast expression and the hastily cleared site told the musketeers exactly what had happened.

"Do you know how far it is to the river?" Athos demanded abruptly.

"They said about an hour's ride, just follow the track..." Perrot's faint hope they might let him go was dashed at the response:

"After you...Move!"

Athos chanced a quick look at his silent friend as they set off again and was reassured that, for the moment at least, Porthos was fully focussed on what remained of their mission. However he couldn't help but note a look in the man's eye that suggested someone was going to pay a heavy price for what he was feeling before their task was completed.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Aramis arrived back at the camp to find it deserted and, from the still smouldering remains of the previous night's fire and discarded blankets, it was evident that it had been evacuated in a great hurry.

He could hardly say he was surprised that Climence and any others that remained had made a run for it but his endurance was waning and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up his pursuit.

Drawing on the few reserves he had left, he guided his horse back on to the track heading toward the river.

TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM

Climence and Bouchier, having made good their escape, considered that things had worked out quite well for them. By the time Faure or Perrot made it to the river, they'd be long gone and there'd be no need to share their promised generous remuneration with anyone.

Climence almost allowed herself a rare smile in appreciation of their good fortune as they continued down the track at a fast trot.

The sound of swiftly running water could be heard not too distantly and they pushed onwards, anxious to leave this forest well behind them. They didn't have to ride too much longer before they rounded a curve in the trail and saw the glint of the early morning sun reflecting on the river at the bottom of the valley into which the track descended.

They were almost across the shallow waters of the ford when Climence heard Bouchier swear, loudly. In the intervening time since they'd originally arrived in Bellacoure, part of the rocky wall abutting the narrow path back up from the river, impossible to see from the far bank, had collapsed and was now completely blocked. He briefly wondered how many more times fate could conspire against them on this, apparently, cursed job.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Climence responded, as irascible and unsympathetic as ever. "Earn your money. Get up there and start clearing the way."

Bouchier rode up the path a short way before dismounting. He began to remove the larger lumps of debris from the pile covering their route. Only the knowledge that, without Climence, he wouldn't get paid, forced him to hold his tongue: As he worked, he vowed to himself that, once he had his money, he'd make sure he never set eyes on the woman again, that was, if he didn't kill her.

Climence remained astride her horse on the river bank, offering no greater contribution to the work in hand than her persistent demands that he work faster. Facing away from the river, she didn't notice the approaching musketeers; their reluctant and nervous guide cautiously steering his horse away to one side, trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself whatsoever.

Athos and Porthos came to a halt halfway across the ford and trained their weapons on the woman as she finally realised she was not alone and turned, dismayed at what she saw.

"You have in your possession something that is the property of His Majesty. Return it and we'll ensure you receive a fair trial."

Those last few words almost stuck in Athos' throat. This woman was responsible for Aramis' death and deserved, in his opinion, nothing approaching mercy or fairness, but he would not sully the name of the regiment his friend had represented with such distinction for a solely personal vendetta, despite the temptation to do otherwise.

He glanced to his side, hoping that Porthos would be able to comport himself similarly and was relieved to see that, for the moment, the man was clearly attempting to do so: For how long, he wasn't sure.

Perrot, cowering back on the forest side of the river, decided that this moment was going to be his best opportunity to make a break for it and tried to turn his horse back up the track while his captors were otherwise occupied. With a speed of movement that seemed barely possible for such a big man to achieve, Porthos satisfied just a small portion of the retribution he was dying to mete out by dispatching him with a single shot on the turn: The last lesson learned in Perrot's abruptly ended life was that musketeers did not bluff.

TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM

Aramis had pushed his fatigued mount as hard as he dared. He could see iridescence typical of sunlight on water through the trees as the track curved slightly to begin its descent. Then he heard the shot.

Unsure who might be shooting he was, nevertheless, unwilling to leave himself open to running into another ambush anytime soon and steered the horse up the slope at the side of the track and toward the top of the embankment on his side of the river. As the slope became steeper and more rocky, he was forced to abandon his horse and clamber up the remainder of the incline.

As he climbed, he was increasingly aware that his tired limbs lacked their normal nimbleness and he slipped several times. One ill-judged step resulted in him catching his injured leg on a jagged rocky outcrop, he gasped in pain as he felt the stitches finally give way but, regardless, he pulled himself to the top, astonished when he recognised who was standing in the valley below.

No time to wonder how and when Athos and Porthos had arrived on the scene, his sole concern was that he could only see Climence and one fallen man but that still left one unaccounted for. Scanning the area, his sharp eyes caught a movement part way up the embankment on the other side of the river, highlighted by the familiar flash of sun on metal.

All the instincts and skills that made him the most highly regarded marksman in France worked in perfect cohesion to inform him that Bouchier, who he now knew it had to be, was setting up to aim at his brothers; unimpressed as he'd been by any of the shooting he'd seen from his adversaries, he was not about to give him the opportunity to complete his shot.

Drawing his own elegant pistol, preferring to trust its calibration over the one he'd so recently acquired, he took his aim, well aware that the distance was at the limit of accurate targeting for the weapon he had available.

He saw Bouchier's finger tightening over the trigger as he narrowed his field of vision to see only his objective.

A shot rang out across the valley and a single pistol tumbled down the embankment, coming to rest in the mud at the bottom: A lifeless arm dangling ineffectively over the rocks above.

Climence, incensed as she saw her last chance at escape sink along with the weapon, screamed abuse at her captors. Athos kept his pistol trained on her as both he and Porthos tried to identify the source of the killing shot.

Neither of them could resist a disbelieving grin as an evidently tired, but joyously familiar, voice was heard clearly:

"Climence, hand the letter over now. I have a pistol aimed directly at you and, please be assured, after the last couple of days I've had, if you force me to fire, I will not miss."


	13. Chapter 12

_I'm sorry about the delay in posting this one, it took a little while to get the balance I was looking for in this chapter._

 _As ever, I'm very grateful for all the lovely reviews and that so many of you are reading this._

 _A/N - As an interesting historical aside, I recently saw a documentary that said research showed one of the primary causes of death among women in the UK during Elizabethan times was drowning due to woollen clothing becoming waterlogged and pulling them in when they fetched water from the rivers. Whilst it doesn't serve the story to drown Climence, I did want to use that piece of information to make her life just a little more miserable; I couldn't think of a character more deserving :)_

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 12**

Athos and Porthos exchanged looks of utter disbelief. What the hell had just happened?

"Well? What are you still doing here? I can take care of this."

Porthos didn't need to be asked twice, turning his horse around and speeding back toward the bank.

With some difficulty, Athos turned his attention back to the young woman facing them:

"Remove the pistol from your belt and throw it in the river, along with any other weapons you may have." His voice was far more controlled than he was feeling, he'd far rather be going with Porthos to make sure they weren't imagining things than dealing with this...well...if she was bad enough for Aramis, ever the gentleman, to be prepared to shoot her then that was a good enough indictment of her character to be going on with.

Climence had finally accepted that she was beaten and, reluctantly, complied with the instructions she'd been given. A small movement up on the ridge above suggested that the owner of the disembodied voice she'd heard still had her in his sights so she did not dare do otherwise.

She looked particularly disgusted when ordered to dismount and walk forward into the ankle-deep water: The water soaked straight up into the woollen over-dress she'd been wearing to travel and, effectively, weighed her down enough to make any attempt at escape impossible.

Eyeing her captor malevolently as he advanced his horse toward her she, reluctantly, reached inside the dispatch bag, which she'd been carrying since it was originally recovered, and surrendered the letter.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Watching the scene below play out to its conclusion from his vantage point on the ridge, Aramis felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The adrenaline that had kept him going this long started to ebb away, taking the last of his energy with it: Having confirmed in his own tired mind there was no-one and nothing left unaccounted for, it occurred to him, eventually, that the only thing left for him to concentrate on was getting back down the slope.

"After everything else that's happened, falling down here and breaking my neck would be a really stupid way to die," he advised himself as he started to move, cautiously regarding the steep, rocky incline; his only way down. He was struggling to recall how he even got up there in the first place and it was only with great effort that he was able to manoeuvre his uncooperative limbs at all.

He noticed blood on one of the rocks as he was placing his hand to lower himself and realised that the damage to the wound on his leg caused during his earlier climb was not insignificant and the tatty bandage was now completely soaked in blood .

Successfully negotiating the worst of the descent and nearing the gentler slope below, he was startled by the sound of an approaching horse: Struggling to focus mentally, he failed to equate the new arrival with Porthos' departure from sight below.

His nerves frayed from two days of having to be constantly on alert, he couldn't help but chance a look behind him and promptly lost what little balance he had, tumbling down the last part of the climb and landing on the softer ground below in a dazed, boneless, heap.

"Aramis!"

The abrupt landing jolted his painfully bruised ribs but didn't seem to do anything else, at least nothing hurt more than it did before. He was vaguely aware of a familiar voice sounding really quite alarmed, he couldn't think why: He was as comfortable as he'd been any time recently, just lying here...no-one was shooting at him and it was a pleasant enough morning...he'd just have a little sleep then he'd feel better...

"Aramis! Don't you pass out on me. Did you hit your head?"

That voice seemed quite insistent about something. Had he hit his head? He didn't think so, but then his whole body felt like it had lost a wrestling match with a large boulder and he really just wanted to rest...but, whatever Porthos wanted, it did seem quite urgent...

Porthos!

Full consciousness returned to him apace and he groaned...

"I fell down the slope, didn't I...how embarrassing." His voice rasped with disuse and he winced at how truly terrible he sounded.

Opening his eyes he found he was looking straight into those of his best friend, they were filled with concern...and something else? Porthos had an odd expression on his face: Usually so easy to read, Aramis couldn't tell if the man was going to laugh, cry or, maybe, throttle him?

Instead he did none of those things and pulled his, still slightly bewildered, best friend and brother up into a bone-crunching hug.

"Ribs..," was all Aramis managed to squeak out before all the breath was expelled from his body. Porthos, realising the man probably felt as bad as his appearance suggested, released him, a little.

"We thought you were dead..." Porthos managed to choke out.

"Why?" Now Aramis was really confused.

"He said you fell into a ravine...that you didn't stand a chance..."

"Who said? What? Oh that...oh, only a bit..."

He had to admit that as explanations went that sounded just...wrong...but even so, he'd heard the distress in his friend's voice and, however they'd come to hear about the incident at the ravine, he hated that he'd been the cause of it even inadvertently.

He was trying to articulate something a little more substantial as a response while his friend stared at him in disbelief.

Porthos for his part wanted to ask, no demand, answers; he felt oddly angry as all the pain and grief he'd been suppressing since...

All of that abated as he looked at his best friend, in all the ways that counted, his closest family; normally immaculate, the man looked about as bedraggled as it was possible to get; clothing ripped and torn; wounds in need of attention; and God only knew how many other bruises and injuries all that dirt was hiding...

Porthos started to laugh: A release of the myriad emotions he was feeling simultaneously; he couldn't help it.

The explanations could wait. All that mattered was Aramis was here, and he was alive.

Despite aches and pains in places he barely knew he had and the overwhelming desire to sleep for a week, Aramis couldn't resist a tired smile, relieved to hear the sound. He imagined he must look an absolute mess, but couldn't find it in himself to care; he was just so grateful he wasn't on his own anymore.

"Thanks for the confidence boost," he said in mock irritation, though he could hear his normally crisp enunciation sounded flat and slurred with fatigue. He moved to try and pull himself up, in spite of being well aware that it was an extraordinarily bad idea.

Porthos helped: Aramis resisted; Porthos ignored him and assisted anyway; Aramis conceded, in no condition to do otherwise, but still complained for appearance's sake.

"...can walk perfectly well, thank you..." his right leg almost gave out under him, "...on one leg."

Porthos, already supporting him under his good arm, effortlessly took more of his weight to, miraculously, small protest. He resisted the temptation to pick his friend up, allowing him to do as much as he could but it was obvious that was increasingly little as, feeling safe for the first time in a very long while, Aramis fought a losing battle to stay awake.

The big man's imagination was running riot as to exactly what might have happened; Perrot had seemed completely sure when he'd told them about the ravine and, most certainly, had no incentive to lie, not about that at any rate.

No matter what the truth of the matter, it was self-evident it would be a while before Aramis was up to answering any questions or even able to stay on a horse unaided. Without further preamble he hoisted his now almost completely, abnormally, co-operative friend onto his own horse, with clear instructions not to fall off, the man just about managed to do so through sheer force of will, and got up behind him with only the most perfunctory of objections.

They started to move, gently, down the slope.

"M'horse?"

"I've got him, don't worry."

Porthos had attached the reins of the fatigued black horse to those of his own and was heading back towards the river when he felt his friend slump in the saddle, exhaustion and pain finally getting the better of him. Tightening his arm around the man, he, almost unconsciously, leaned in closer just to reassure himself that he was breathing and real.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again, you pig-headed idiot," he murmured.

"Missed you too...'Thos," came the sleepy reply.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Athos had derived a certain amount of satisfaction from ensuring Climence was safe, secure and as uncomfortable as possible: As a result she now sat on a ledge on the river bank, the far side of the track from where he was now setting up a temporary camp; her hands secured to a robust branch and her knees bunched up as close to her body as she could manage to prevent her skirts taking on even more water from the river that lapped perilously close to her feet.

He found himself quite impressed that she really did know some very colourful invective for a woman.

"You can't treat a lady like this..." she screamed.

"Thank you for the information, madam. When we encounter one, we'll be sure to apply that lesson."

The fire he'd laid was just starting to catch when the sound of hooves caused him to look up.

Carefully composing his features to disguise the equal amounts of delight and worry he felt, he approached Porthos' horse, eyeing the, apparently, barely conscious man clearly being held firmly in the saddle by his fiercely protective friend.

Recognising immediately from Porthos' demeanour that it was going to be quite some while before the big man calmed down fully, he forced a degree of neutrality into his tone of voice so as not to agitate him further:

"Welcome back. What do we have to deal with?" He reached out to support Aramis' weight as Porthos lowered him carefully from the horse.

"Gunshot wounds, bruised, possibly cracked, ribs, maybe a knock on the head... won't know what else till we get the mud off..." Porthos' couldn't have masked his concern if he'd tried.

"Needs a bath..." Athos sniffed, supporting the majority of Aramis' weight while resting him just a little on his one good leg.

"Bu' not deaf..." Aramis supplied, making a major effort to open his eyes. His retort earned him the reward of a small chuckle from Porthos which made it entirely worthwhile in his opinion. He didn't know how they'd come to hear about the ravine but, even in his unfocused state, he knew he never wanted to hear that tone in Porthos' voice again.

"And not dead either, _mon ami_..." Athos whispered while Porthos shooed the horses down to the river for a well-earned drink and spread blankets near the burgeoning fire. "...well done for that," he added as they made their way over.

"Glad y'approve," Aramis mumbled, semi-coherently. He felt rather than saw a huff of laughter from the man supporting him.

The very image of detachment and composure, Athos assisted the injured man over to the makeshift bed and, if he took just a little more care and time than strictly necessary to ensure his comfort, well...it wasn't like anyone needed to know.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

 _Paris, same time._

Treville and his small party, having been forced to stay overnight at an inn due to travelling so much slower than on the outward journey, were only now pulling into the garrison.

Tired, and with much occupying his mind already, he was not best pleased to be met by two of the Cardinal's Red Guard demanding an immediate report on the status of the Duke's letter.

"Tell His Eminence that I will be seeking an audience with His Majesty at his earliest convenience and will be giving a full update on the matter at that time. After all, the letter is addressed to The King, is it not?"

Had the men been more familiar with the Captain's mannerisms, or indeed in possession of any degree of perceptiveness at all, they would have noted the forced politeness of his response accompanied by the definite threat implicit in his posture and known when to leave well alone. Unfortunately, the senior Red Guard in this case was a bumptious little man called Augier, with whom the musketeers had had several encounters, and he was not to be so easily deterred:

"The Cardinal stated that, as you're so short of men at the moment that this task required you yourself to leave Paris in order to deal with the incident, he felt it would be wise to relieve you of the further burden of a journey to the Palace and he would be happy to relay the information to His Majesty on your behalf."

Of all the commendations Treville had earned in his long and distinguished career as a soldier, it's very possible that he never deserved one more than he did for keeping his hands to himself and saying what he should, rather than what he wanted to, on this particular occasion.

He bit back the retort that it was entirely The Cardinal's doing that he was short of men at all and, instead, satisfied himself with staring at Augier with such contempt the man visibly wilted:

"Thank His Eminence for his concern but please inform him that The Musketeers will always execute all duties entrusted to them by His Majesty to the best of their abilities and irrespective of the circumstances. I will be at the Palace in one hour and I will give my report then."

The authority in his voice said everything his words didn't and, as the Red Guard scuttled away, Treville gave himself just a moment to enjoy the appreciative smiles he detected among the few men he had remaining before heading to his quarters trying to compose, in his head, exactly what he was going to tell The King.

TBC


	14. Chapter 13

_A bit of a struggle with this one. I keep thinking I'm winding it up and then realise I have a few more loose ends to tie up but it shouldn't take more than one or two chapters to get to the end now (hopefully!)._ **  
**

 _As ever, I'm very grateful for all feedback._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 13**

Athos and Porthos left Aramis to rest while they boiled some water and prepared everything that would be needed to clean him and his wounds up. Both keenly monitoring for any sign of fever or breathing difficulty, they were reassured, by the minimal signs of either, that exhaustion was the biggest factor in his condition and decided not to disturb him until they had to and then only for the shortest time possible.

As Athos checked Aramis' saddlebags for what remained of his medical kit, he happened to look over at Climence who'd been considerably quieter since Porthos' return; in fact now, for the first time, she looked genuinely scared as she craned her neck slightly towards the camp and, specifically, the man laying there: Concerned at the survival of a witness to the full extent of her complicity in the whole attack, he wondered?

Returning to help Porthos who had everything else readied, including his and Athos' spare shirts, which would, no doubt, be required for one purpose or another, Athos took a moment to pull a low branch across and secure it to an adjacent tree before draping a spare blanket over it to form a screen: He saw no reason to give Climence any more information or detail about Aramis' condition than was unavoidable.

"Keeping the draught out...?" Aramis' eyes were opened and he was, ill-advisedly attempting to sit up. Porthos, exasperated, immediately leant in to support him, refraining from any rebuke only because they'd have had to have woken him anyway...but even so...

"Much as we're aware of your exhibitionist tendencies, there's a time and a place..." Athos responded good-naturedly, "...feel better for your nap?"

Even through the layer of grime that coated his friend's face, the darkened shadows of sleep-deprivation were clear; it didn't take a doctor to work out that he'd been awoken simply by the amount of discomfort he was in. However that small amount of rest did seem to have been enough to allow him to think and speak clearly, for a short time at least.

Porthos started to gently remove the dirtied leather coat, sliding it off his shoulders, right arm first. He couldn't help noticing that the bulk of the dirt and mud was concentrated on the upper half of his body, as though it had been poured on him from above; he shuddered at the thought, Perrot's words from just a couple of hours ago still echoing in his mind.

The filthy and ruined shirt removed with equal care, and immediately discarded as unsalvageable, revealed a large area of bruising down the whole right hand side of his body and extending some way across his back.

Porthos drew his breath in over his teeth, he'd known about the painful rib injury but he'd no idea it was so extensive:

"How'd you do that?"

"Collided with a ravine wall...," Aramis paused, regarding his best friend with all seriousness, sensing how raw this subject still was for him. "One way to stop, I guess."

Porthos smiled weakly:

"Arnica?" He removed the familiar, and frequently used, pale salve from the medical supplies.

"That'll do it, I couldn't reach to apply any..."

Porthos nodded, just grateful for his friend's apparently miraculous escape, and handed him a dampened cloth to wipe his face clean of some of the dirt while he started to apply the salve to the bruised area far more gently than would ever be normally expected from a man of his size.

Aramis accepted the cloth gratefully, appreciating the warmed water in the chill air even as it accentuated the sting of the myriad small cuts and scrapes on his skin from the impact of stones and grit.

Treating each other's wounds had become almost second nature to them over the years and they worked systematically, all recognising what needed to be done.

To distract himself from the discomfort, particularly as the dressing on his arm had adhered to his skin and its removal was far from pleasant, Aramis started to give them a brief outline of what had happened; he noticed both his companions bristling visibly as they heard about the naive young cadet's behaviour and Climence's role in his unresponsiveness when the ambush had taken place.

He'd just started to relate exactly what happened at the ravine when he had to clench his teeth hard to prevent himself from crying out as the sodden bandage was removed from his leg and the, now ragged, wound was exposed. Only once it was cleaned and closed again, without any of the anticipated complaints about the uneven stitching, he was finally able to calm himself a little as the searing pain began to gradually subside.

By the time the process was over, he was breathing as heavily as his pained muscles would allow and too exhausted to offer any further explanations or information.

Noting he was starting to shiver in the chill air of the September morning, they hastily dressed him in Athos' spare shirt and managed to coax him to drink just a little tisane of healing herbs before he drifted off to sleep once more, huddled under a pile of blankets.

TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM

 _The Louvre, mid-morning._

Treville, entering His Majesty's presence, was not best pleased to see Cardinal Richelieu hovering just behind the King's shoulder. He had hoped his audience would be private.

Not for the first time, he considered His Eminence's overt interest in this particular matter to be more than a little disproportionate, surely France's First Minister had more important tasks to attend to?

"Well, Treville. What news of the Duke's letter?" The King was already short-tempered having been confined to the Palace grounds for the last couple of days due to the limited number of Musketeers available to protect him.

"Your Majesty, it appears my men were ambushed at some point after leaving the Duke's chateau. One was killed, the other is presently missing; we believe him to be presently pursuing the attackers. Two further Musketeers are also attempting to intercept the men responsible."

"And how do they know where they're going, or even if the other one's alive?"

The King's lack of concern that a man had been killed in the course of a mission on his behalf was nothing unusual but, nevertheless, rankled Treville as much as it ever did.

"He was able to send us a brief message with their intended destination..." Treville's words tailed off as he was temporarily distracted by a very odd look that seemed to flit across the Cardinal's features before the man modified his expression to look like he'd just eaten something unpleasantly sour, as he normally did.

As usual, the King noticed nothing amiss and said brightly:

"Well that's very resourceful. So when can I expect my letter, Captain?"

"I can't say for certain, Your Majesty, although, I would warn you, it's likely to be at least a couple of days before we get news. But my best men," he ignored Richelieu's sneer, "are dealing with this matter and they will do everything possible to recover the stolen item and complete its delivery at the earliest opportunity."

Louis' face took on that sulky look he always got when he didn't like an answer however he trusted Treville and saw no reason that he would be deliberately evasive, so seemed to be prepared to let the matter rest for the moment.

"Very well, Captain. Keep me updated. You're dismissed."

Treville was already mid-bow and about to remove himself from The King's presence when The Cardinal interjected:

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I don't believe you told us where you believe these miscreants to be heading...?"

"It's a small town over two days ride from the city, Your Eminence. This is why I do not anticipate receiving any news in the immediate future."

"Yes...but the name...?" Richelieu almost hissed the question.

"Er... yes, that's right. What's the name of the place, Treville?" Louis asked, entirely clueless as to why that might be relevant but feeling that he should enquire so it looked like he understood whatever was happening.

Treville was getting very tired of The Cardinal's point-scoring with regards to this matter. The name of the town would mean nothing to The King, in fact he had probably never even heard of it, but now Richelieu was trying to make it look like The Captain's report had been incomplete or even deliberately misleading.

"The town's name is Auchonne, Your Majesty," he stated, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice.

This time, Treville noted, there was no change to the expression on Richelieu's face, not even the self-satisfied grin he'd been half-expecting, and concluded that it could only be a trick of the light if the man looked slightly paler than normal.

"Will that be all, Your Majesty?" Treville was tired of The Cardinal's games and was anxious to be attending to more immediate matters.

"Oh yes, of course...well I hope this is all sorted out soon and your men don't mess up again..." The King waved his dismissal as his concentration waned.

Inwardly seething, Treville stalked from the chamber looking to exit the palace as swiftly as possible: His resources were stretched to breaking point and now he barely had enough men to carry out the most basic of duties; he certainly didn't have time for The Cardinal's petty one-upmanship.

He was vaguely aware of Richelieu excusing himself from His Majesty's presence as he left the room, something about an urgent task: This didn't improve Treville's mood any, knowing The Cardinal had had no other reason for being there but to try and diminish The Musketeers reputation in front of The King, yet again.

So preoccupied was he with concern for his men in Bellacoure, the ongoing battle to staff a full duty roster and his irritation with His Eminence's obvious attempts to undermine him at every turn, the departure of a messenger pigeon from the vicinity of The Cardinal's offices failed to register in his mind as he rode away from the palace and back to the garrison.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

While Aramis got some much-needed sleep, Athos and Porthos had divided immediate tasks between them.

Porthos had drawn the short straw and was presently bootless and standing knee-high in the freezing cold river catching some fish: He was cursing slightly as he looked at the paltry amount he'd managed to trap so far, thinking that Aramis would have collected a more than adequate amount by now and would be happily warming up on the bank by the fire while he prepared the fish for grilling; he also wondered how much longer it would be before he'd start to lose the feeling in his feet and they'd have to make do with what they had or go hungry.

Athos admirably masked a smirk at his friend's frustration while he used the small awl he always carried on his saddle to pierce a few holes either side of the rents on Aramis' coat and leather trousers so that he could at least patch them enough to give some protection to his wounds. There was no question of them spending the rest of the day here and he knew they'd have to move soon or risk spending another night out of doors, which, with an injured man and a prisoner in tow, was far from ideal.

Running repairs completed, he took a little bread and some water over to Climence. Whilst he had no interest in her health or well-being, it stood to reason they'd have their hands full keeping Aramis upright once they were forced to move on; her fainting for lack of food was hardly going to help matters. Her expression remained as malicious and resentful as ever when he approached but she did, at least, accept the refreshment with a little grace.

"You know you'll hang." Athos was never one to beat around the bush.

He looked at her, noticing a certain resignation underneath her deliberately hard exterior; whilst nothing excused what she'd done, he couldn't help wonder what privations had driven someone so young to be so callous, not even flinching when the man up on the ridge had lost his life so suddenly.

There was no doubt in his mind that she was a nobody in this operation. Planning to intercept any message bound for The King, particularly one in the possession of his elite guard, would have to have been undertaken by someone with a great deal more to lose or gain than a small-time criminal such as Climence. Now he knew that Aramis was alive and going to be all right, he found himself more readily inclined to consider some degree of negotiation, particularly if it meant finding out who was really behind all this.

"You know, if you were to co-operate a little, we might be able to...put in a good word for you...?"

She laughed mirthlessly.

"So I get to grow old behind bars...no thanks, I'd rather hang."

"And this was so important to you you're prepared to hang alone?" Athos retorted.

He could see the doubt in her expression but she remained silent so he rose and turned to walk away.

"I don't know who they are," she said suddenly, causing him to turn and regard her once more. "We only met the man twice, in the room at the back of a bar in Auchonne."

"Who's we?"

"Bouchier," she nodded her head toward the opposite bank to indicate who she meant, "and me. He asked if we could do the job and gave us money to recruit the others. Then he just told us to be ready when he needed us. We'd get paid the rest once we delivered the letter to him."

"And he's waiting for you in Auchonne?"

She nodded miserably.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Only that he was well-backed and would have the one hundred livres ready for us when we brought him the letter."

" _Well-backed indeed_ ," considered Athos. Small wonder the temptation had proved overwhelming; he imagined most petty criminals would jump at the chance of a payday like that. It also meant that the backer for this was extremely serious about preventing that letter from reaching its destination.

Knowing they couldn't delay travelling onwards for much longer, he weighed up their options: Auchonne was closest and could be reached comfortably by nightfall, there would doubtless be an inn they could stay at and it also offered the opportunity to get to Climence's buyer; however, who knew what amount of control this person had in the town, or if there were more men, Aramis was hardly in a condition to fight should they run into trouble there.

Replaying Climence's words in his mind, a thought occurred:

"You mentioned you didn't know who 'they' were...?"

"I only ever dealt with him, he was the only one who ever spoke."

"So there was someone else there...when?"

"Only the first time we met. She stood in the dark, in the corner. She had a long cloak and it covered her face. I've no idea who she was..."

"So how do you know it was a woman?"

"Her perfume," Climence snarled, resentfully, "smelt expensive."

The information was illuminating; the unknown woman would appear to be the source of the money and would take them a step closer to whoever was behind this, if they could apprehend her.

Climence had finished the bread she'd been given and watched silently as Athos untied the end of the rope attached to the tree and indicated she should stand. She looked at him warily, obviously disinclined to trust what he may do next, and the surprise was evident on her face when he led her as far back from the river's edge as the bank allowed, securing her again in a slightly more comfortable spot where she would be able to sit normally without getting her feet soaked.

"Let it not be said that co-operation does not have its rewards," he simply said as he returned to the camp.

TBC


	15. Chapter 14

_I'm sorry about the delay in posting this latest update: I have a new job and a lot less time to write now but I do intend to finish the story. We're nearly there now so please bear with me._

 _For those of you who suspect the identity of our mystery figure I would just say that this is set pre-series and I won't be contradicting anything that happens in the series itself, I prefer to think of it as foreshadowing._

 _As always, your reviews and feedback are gratefully received._

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 14**

It was close to midday by the time the simple fish stew, made a little more palatable with a few wild herbs, was ready to be consumed and Aramis had awoken naturally; hunger finally overtaking the need for sleep.

The injured man was now fully dressed again. Athos was pleased to notice a marked improvement in his friend's pallor, albeit he was still moving stiffly and with some obvious discomfort. He leaned in to assist Aramis with putting his boots back on while Porthos retrieved the now repaired and much cleaner coat from the branch it had been hung on to dry after the worst of the mud was removed.

"I can dress myself, thank you." Aramis' slightly testy tone was sufficient evidence of how much better he was feeling.

"...and you can easily tear those stitches again; I've done quite enough of that job for one day." Athos' firm reply was enough to silence him, Aramis hated it when other people used his own arguments against him.

He did, however, permit Porthos to ease his coat over the injured left arm in return for which his friend allowed him to complete the job himself, only supporting the weight of the garment to avoid any awkward movements. Athos felt a ghost of a smile play across his lips at Aramis' uncharacteristic acquiescence, realising that the injured musketeer understood the big man's need for the catharsis of caring as much, if not more, than the care was needed.

Porthos had started to move towards the steaming cooking pot when he paused briefly, as if remembering something. Removing the pauldron from its place on his belt, he bent over, reattaching it to its customary place on Aramis' shoulder.

"Now that's better," he said, grinning.

"You're right," Athos did genuinely smile this time, "it is."

"Thank you _mes amis_ ," Aramis returned the smiles, gingerly raising his painfully sore left arm to run his fingers over the worn leather.

The simple action seemed to relax all of them and, as they ate, they were finally able to update one another on the events that had brought them to this point.

Aramis explained, as best he could recall, the circumstances of his escape from the ravine but confessed he was more than a little lucky to have made it out alive; from what he said, the others could only concur, gratefully. It also became clear to the others that, from the number of men recruited, this had been a well-resourced operation and deadly serious in its intent.

For their part, Athos and Porthos recounted, as emotionlessly as possible, their side of the story including Bastien's involvement; Aramis both impressed and horrified at the youngster's actions and the risks he'd taken, almost spitting his food out when he heard about the boy's audacious and dangerous solo ride to Paris.

"He's quite an impressive young man..." Athos observed, atypically complimentary.

"...and you made quite an impression on him," Porthos grinned, then his face fell suddenly as he remembered how they'd parted.

"What's wrong?" Aramis, sensitive as ever to any change to his friend's demeanour.

Porthos related how Bastien had returned to his village after Perrot's terrible, albeit incorrect, report of what had happened at the ravine; how the youth who'd tried so hard to help them had been left feeling he'd failed.

"We'll need to get word to him when we pass L'Ensors..." he concluded. He'd developed a fondness for the youngster and hated to think he might be berating himself over an untruth.

Aramis nodded, overwhelmed by Bastien's heroism but not entirely surprised at his actions based on the little he'd seen of the lad who'd struck him as both resourceful and intelligent.

"But that's not the direction we're going in now, is it?" The question, phrased rather more as a statement, was aimed directly at Athos.

"What d'you mean?" Porthos' only thought had been getting back to Paris as soon as possible.

"We'll go on to Auchonne. We can get there easily by nightfall." Athos' voice was even and reasonable. Looking directly at Porthos, trying to convince him of his logic, he continued: "Neither of us could navigate safely back following Bastien's route and it's best part of two days to return to the Chateau which is in the wrong direction. Auchonne will give us shelter for the night and we can follow the main road back to Paris from there."

"...and try to get hold of 'er paymaster while we're there?" Porthos flicked his head in the direction of the forlorn figure on the far side of the track. "Aramis is in no condition to fight." Porthos would never shirk from the possibility of getting hold of anyone who'd been responsible for the death of one of his comrades but his concern for his friend was, on this occasion, prompting him to take a more cautious approach.

"I'm not an invalid," Aramis interjected, quite indignantly, "and if we can find who was behind this, we should. Besides, the idea of another night in the open is very unappealing."

"We still have our duty to perform, Porthos and we need to know who was behind this." Athos was adamant this was their only course of action. "They've no reason to suspect anything's amiss, the raiding party weren't expected to be there until today so there's every chance we can apprehend the man concerned without any need to fight."

Porthos nodded, reluctantly, knowing it was the right course of action even though he had significant misgivings.

"When have we ever done anything that didn't end in a fight?" He huffed.

The others had to accept he had a point.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Their meal completed, Athos started to clear the camp while Porthos crossed the ford to start removing the debris blocking their path the other side of the river.

Aramis, frustrated with his limited movement, was ordered to rest while he could so settled, reluctantly, for discharging, cleaning and calibrating the pistol he'd acquired: He forced himself to accept he was unfit for any close-quarters fighting at present, more out of fear his lack of mobility could potentially endanger the others than concern for himself, but he could at least make sure he'd be able to offer covering fire should the need arise.

Porthos pulled away the body of Bouchier from where it lay slumped; briefly examining the clean shot to the head that had killed him. Looking up to the high ridge opposite he marvelled at the accuracy of the shot that had sent the unfortunate man to meet his maker, certain there was no-one else in the whole of France who could have hit such a small target at that distance with only a pistol.

The body, disposed of with all the ceremony he felt like bestowing upon it - out of sight would do - he removed some of the larger rocks and used them to shore up one side of the landslide: Single file passage being adequate to cover the short distance. His physical power and anger at the lack of options they had which had limited them to, in his opinion, the least desirable of destinations, fuelled his movements. He was anxious to get them underway in the shortest possible time so that they would at least have some chance to assess the situation at Auchonne before nightfall. Nevertheless, it was approaching mid-afternoon before they were finally able to continue their onward journey.

Climence's hands were secured to the pommel of her saddle, her horse led by Athos. Aramis only required a little assistance to bear weight on his weakened right leg while mounting his, now refreshed, horse, and was strenuous in his insistence that he was in no great discomfort; Porthos' decision to ride significantly closer than would normally be expected surprised precisely nobody and spoke volumes as to the extent to which he believed him.

They cautiously made their way through the cleared path and continued cross-country, heading south-east as Climence indicated, finding themselves on the main road to Auchonne within a couple of hours.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

It was late in the day and the sun was low in the sky when they finally approached the modest town. The few businesses and stalls cluttered around the main street were mostly closed and only a handful of people remained in the open, eyeing the strangers with curiosity.

They had drawn their cloaks over their shoulders in advance, reluctant to draw any unwanted attention to their identity, and Climence's hands were freed already on the clear understanding that anything other than her complete silence and cooperation would be viewed as an escape attempt and dealt with accordingly.

The bar to which she'd referred, the only one in the town, was located diagonally opposite a small coaching inn and stables on the main street.

Although he was doing his best to disguise it, the ride had clearly drained Aramis but he stubbornly held himself upright in the saddle even as his pained limbs and bruises took their toll; recognising this they wordlessly headed directly to the inn, dismounting and tipping the stable boy to take good care of the horses before entering the building directly.

Porthos was monitoring his friend's condition anxiously, despite assurances that he was fine, whilst also keeping a close eye on Climence so Athos dealt with the innkeeper, procuring two adjacent rooms both of which, he was assured, had working locks.

The landlord's forceful request for payment in advance was slightly unsettling; he claimed to have been swindled by the last strangers to have passed through when they left early the next day without paying. Although his explanation had a degree of plausibility, the man's behaviour was, nonetheless oddly inhospitable for one in his profession.

Nevertheless, with nowhere else to stay and the town clearly now aware that strangers had arrived, leaving would have only caused further suspicion so they ascended the stairs and located the rooms to which they'd been directed.

Of the two, one was quite small but equipped with a solid wooden bed to which Athos secured Climence's hands, warning her of the consequences should she make any noise, and locking the door behind them as they left. They retreated to the other room which comprised two beds and a worn, battered, wooden chair.

Aramis lowered himself awkwardly to sit on the smaller of the two beds, a perplexed expression crossing his face as he did so.

"You all right?" Porthos asked immediately.

"Something odd about the room..." Aramis looked around and sniffed a couple of times. His friend looked at him curiously:

"Well it doesn't smell so great, sure, but we've stayed in plenty of worse places. At least the bedding looks reasonably clean..."

"Porthos, you're a genius," Aramis grinned, satisfied he now knew what was bothering him.

Athos rolled his eyes, preoccupied with their next move and mildly irritated by what he perceived as the irrelevant discourse of his friends.

"Don't tell me...you did 'it your 'ead earlier..." Porthos moved towards him, both concerned and annoyed: Aramis looked between the two of them despairingly.

"You two should try cleaning your quarters occasionally," he snorted. "The room's musty and smells like it's not been used for ages. It's been cleaned recently, but hastily and not particularly thoroughly."

As they continued to look mystified he indicated the piles of dirt compacted into the corners of the room and ran his finger along the top of the bed-head, lifting his finger to show a stripe of still-damp dirt that had settled into a groove in the wood.

"But the bedding..." he slapped the blankets with the flat of his hand to show no dust whatsoever rising..."is clean and fresh, probably just changed today."

"Like they were expecting guests...?" The potential ramifications of what Aramis was saying began to dawn on Porthos.

"Climence and her men were expected here today, were they not?" Athos' voice held its normal, calm intonation.

"Would you stay at a local inn for a little holiday if you were on the run for murder?" Porthos asked.

"I'm just saying there _may_ ," Athos stressed the word, "be a logical explanation..."

He mulled over the possibility that, somehow, their identity was known. It didn't make sense, no-one here could be aware, as yet, that Climence's mission had failed and they were almost two days from l'Ensors by the normal route; even if anyone there had said anything out of turn, word could not have got here already by any conventional means.

He paced over to the grubby window which overlooked the main street and stared out pensively; whilst he didn't doubt there was every chance Climence's paymaster may well be looking to double-cross her, which might explain the landlord's desire to get paid up front if he suspected they wouldn't make it to the morning, there really shouldn't be anything they couldn't handle here providing they stayed alert.

That said, someone with finance and access to confidential information had known the letter, presently safely stowed within his jacket, was being sent by the Duke and had been prepared to fund a well-manned attempt to prevent its delivery. If they knew of the communication, what other information might they have been privy too...and what other resources did they have?

A shadowy movement in the, now virtually deserted, ill-lit street below caught his eye and he rubbed his hand across the murky glass of the window to try and see more clearly. He just caught a glimpse of a slender figure, draped head to toe in a dark cloak, slipping into the space between the bar and its neighbouring building before disappearing into the gloom.

The nagging feeling of disquiet that had been his constant companion ever since they'd ridden into this nondescript town would not be ignored any longer.

"Athos...?"

He pulled the chair over towards the bed and sat down, Porthos seating himself alongside Aramis on the bed, and they leaned in to discuss their plan of action at a suitably low volume.

TBC


	16. Chapter 15

_I'm sorry for the long delay in updating. This was meant to be the last full chapter but it looks like there's going to be one more after this which, which, hopefully, won't take quite so long._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 15**

Climence's head jerked up sharply as she heard the lock to her door click. Her hands still secured firmly to the bed post, she straightened as best she could from the awkward twisted position she'd been forced to assume and focused on arranging her features in an approximation of defiance: She needn't have bothered. The men who entered, fully preoccupied with their undertaking, exhibited no interest in her insolence, feigned or otherwise.

The two who'd intercepted her at the river filled her view in the small room as she was informed quite curtly that they fully intended to keep her rendezvous at the bar and that their companion would remain with her in the meantime to "keep her company".

As they withdrew to the door, she realised the third musketeer was already seated on the wooden chair within arm's reach of the door; she noted he looked pale and tired but was sufficiently alert to fix her with a gaze which, coupled with the heavily decorated pistol lain with deceptive casualness across his lap, suggested that he was more than capable of shooting straight should the need arise.

She scowled unattractively, an action which only served to provoke a knowing half-grin from her guard, satisfied his point was well-made.

Athos and Porthos shared a look, equal parts concern and determination, as they heard the lock mechanism turn over behind them when they left the room. Reluctant as they both were to split their numbers, in this case they had all concurred it was the most pragmatic, albeit undesirable, course of action.

The fact of the matter was that there was every possibility their fears were baseless, in which case it would be perfectly plausible to inform Climence's buyer that she'd simply sent them ahead to check there were no barriers to the transaction being concluded as arranged: On the other hand, should trouble await at the bar, the fully fit musketeers would have enough to deal with without a captive to guard and an injured man to protect.

It was Aramis himself, rarely one to steer the course of caution but mindful that his present limitations could potentially endanger his brothers, who had made it quite clear he was far from completely incapacitated and easily capable of dealing with anything that may arise given that he'd "only have to wait for them to cross the road" should anything untoward happen while they were gone.

The retort had made Porthos chuckle and accept his resistance to the plan had nothing to do with its logic and everything to do with his own lingering unwillingness to let his best friend out of his sight. Aramis had simply grinned reassuringly as he took the letter from Athos and stowed it inside his jacket: They could all agree that wandering into the bar clutching the prize Climence's employers sought would be foolhardy to say the least.

Anxious to assess exactly what the situation was and return, Porthos and Athos descended the rickety staircase realising their host was absent from the small area that had served as a reception hall earlier: Soft flickers, indicating firelight, illuminated small rents in a shabby curtain which partitioned off what they assumed was the innkeeper's private living area at one end of the space though there was no other signs that area was presently occupied.

More keenly aware than before of the unkempt interior of the inn, Athos ran his finger along a small ledge revealing this area had also been recently subject to a similarly unenthusiastic level of housekeeping as had their room: Wordlessly he revealed his findings to Porthos who simply nodded, more determined than ever to be back in the shortest possible time.

The limited glow of a few torches and dim light emanating from grubby windows was sufficient to illuminate their way to the tavern but little else. Crucially, the small amount of the main street that was visible suggested the poor state of the inn was typical of the town in general: Here and there, ramshackle buildings appeared to be boarded up and it seemed that this was a community which was anything but thriving.

Not for the first time since they'd arrived, Athos found himself wishing they could have arrived a little earlier, whilst there was still some daylight and there might have been a few more inhabitants around. Even so, all the evidence implied that Auchonne was experiencing hard times and he found himself wondering what had happened to affect the town's commerce so badly.

He pushed his musing to the back of his mind as, within moments, they were entering the quiet and subdued establishment that served as the town's bar. Some of the patrons raised their heads as they entered, expressions indicative of curiosity rather than hostility aimed towards the newcomers, watching them as they crossed the room to the worn counter.

Pauldrons still carefully covered by their cloaks, they looked like any other travellers and the barkeep addressed them with the air of someone who wanted to make it quite clear that he had no interest in their business as he directed them toward a door situated in the far corner and to the rear of the building: Both of them had seen the look he threw their way in many such places before and saw nothing unusually suspicious about his attitude, the environment reeked of impoverishment and it seemed entirely likely that the man was in no position to turn down a little extra income from any source. Sadly they saw too many people turn a blind eye to illicit activities out of desperation and, while the law might say differently, generally speaking the Musketeers were more interested in apprehending those who created such situations rather than punishing ordinarily honest citizens just trying to survive.

The room into which they were shown was lit only by the undulating glow of a modest fire in the small grate and a few candles. Amidst the sparsely furnished interior a man sat at a table to one side, an odd stillness to his demeanour as he failed to acknowledge their presence. It was a matter of mere seconds but they had already stepped to the centre of the room before either of them realised that their host would not be offering any information this side of Judgement Day: The jaundiced light could not disguise the ghastly tone to his skin or the blueness of his sickeningly curled lips; his wine goblet skewed in his hand, some of its contents spilt on the table in front of him.

He was quite dead.

A stifled gasp from the doorway caused them to turn to see the distressed face of the bar owner retreating hurriedly:

"The door had started to swing open...I was only trying to close it...I've not seen anything...honest..." his voice was rising in alarm, starting to draw the attention of his other customers.

In a bid to quell the man's panic, Athos drew back his cloak to reveal the fleur de lys on his shoulder: The action caused the desired reaction and the irritating babbling ceased quite satisfactorily.

"I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers. This is Porthos." He glanced to the side to see that his comrade had similarly revealed his uniform. "This man was already dead when we entered although...," he said, running his finger across the spilled wine to show that the wood was still damp from the liquid, "...it does not seem that it happened all that long ago. Has anyone else entered this room recently?"

His words reverberated through the silence of the bar and exclamations could be heard among the customers as they considered the implications of what they'd just heard.

Certainly, there was a marked change in the bar-keep's attitude towards them:

"No, monsieur. This man," he indicated the seated corpse, "..came in a couple of hours ago and paid for the room same as he did about a week ago." He looked a little shame-faced. "Times is hard and..." he paused nervously, "...and it doesn't pay to ask too many questions..."

Porthos nodded his understanding of the man's position.

Athos, despite his predisposition to take the more cynical viewpoint, simply nodded impassively: The man was, at least, plausible. However, it seemed unlikely that the deceased had gone to all this trouble simply to poison himself, as that's what had clearly killed him, which meant someone else had to have been here.

"So he entered alone and no-one else joined him?" His voice heavily permeated with suspicion he eyed the dimly-lit room and noticed a tatty drape covering the wall to one corner. "Is that a doorway?"

The bar-keep followed the direction of his gaze and nodded:

"Well yes. But it's locked and has been for ages...," he added hurriedly. "We lost the key and...well...there's not been much call for this room in a long time..." his voice tailed off realising it sounded like he'd been trying to mislead them and started to stammer his clarification.

Athos silenced the man with a raised hand, moving further into the room alongside the table and heading towards the shrouded door. He sniffed the air suspiciously as he did so, apparently preoccupied with something he detected: Porthos eyed him curiously while at pains not to appear too mystified by the action in front of the agitated bar-keep.

Shaking his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts of the unwanted memories invading his mind as the familiar scent, almost a spectral presence in the room, evoked feelings he'd spent so long burying, Athos found himself pulling back the covering to the door unthinkingly as if obeying a siren's call.

The simple lock was, to his way of thinking, no challenge whatsoever for anyone with the most rudimentary lock-picking skills and a simple push down on the handle confirmed as much. The door gave way into a shadowy alley way; he started through the opening.

It was only the sound of Porthos calling his name with considerable urgency that gave him moment to pause...a pause which almost certainly saved his life as a dagger embedded itself in his upper arm; entering the space that would have been filled by his heart had he continued his forward momentum.

Jerked back into reality, as much by his realisation of the extent to which he'd been distracted as by the hand of an infuriated Porthos, who'd covered the distance between them in a matter of moments to drag his friend back into the room, it was only as he braced himself up against the solid support of the wall that his mind cleared a little and the pain of his wound began to penetrate his consciousness.

Porthos, having briefly scoured the darkness of the alley through the sight of his pistol, saw no sign of movement and decided to fire without a target would be a waste of good ammunition. Pulling the door to, he glanced over to his friend who was pulling the weapon from his arm and staring at it disbelievingly.

The dagger was finely wrought and simply, but elegantly, decorated: It was a weapon of the calibre you'd scarcely expect to find in a place such as this. Thin but murderously sharp it had pierced through the leather of his coat and buried itself deep into the flesh of his upper arm which was now bleeding sufficient to be of concern.

Grabbing a cloth helpfully offered by the bar owner, Porthos started to wrap the wound whilst keeping a close eye on the door.

"What the hell were you thinking...?"

"I wasn't." His colourless response drew a questioning look from Porthos, shocked as much by Athos' open admission as he was by the uncharacteristic lapse in concentration; he knew there was much about his friend that had never been shared but he'd never seen him lose all sense of where he was like that.

Left in no doubt he'd get nothing further by way of explanation, for now at least, he worked to stem the bleeding. More than ever he strongly felt he was missing something important. He glanced anxiously towards the unlocked door, confused by the randomness of the assault with no follow up attack; why would whoever have done this draw attention to the fact they were still in the town when they were so perfectly hidden by darkness...?

He tied the bandage in place as quickly as he effectively could then chanced a look at the body of Climence's contact, still seated where he'd breathed his last, before he realised: There'd been no further attack because they weren't the target.

"We have to get back." He moved back towards the bar.

Athos' reasoning was only a little behind his partner's as he'd willed himself to bury the morass of memories that had temporarily threatened to swamp him, and regain his normal control. The attack had only been a diversion; the intention was to remove anyone who could identify or prove any link to who was behind all this...

Porthos was already breaking into a run through the bar when screams were heard from outside in the main street which appeared through the window to be more brightly lit than before...

...and then two pistol shots emanated from the direction of the inn.

TBC


	17. Chapter 16

_So this was originally going to be the last chapter with just a short epilogue to tie up loose ends but, the more I think about it, the more I realise there are a rather a lot of those so this is now, definitely, the penultimate chapter._

 _Once again, I'm sorry this took so long and my sincere thanks to all those who've taken the time to review this story and are bothering to stick with it during the prolonged denouement._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **A Simple Mission**

 **Chapter 16**

 _A few minutes earlier_

Aramis supposed he couldn't really complain; relatively speaking, his current situation was some considerable improvement on what it had been just 24 hours previously. Nevertheless, the combined factors of his physical condition, the hard chair and being the target of the sustained glowering of the never-charming Climence were all starting to become more than a little wearing while he waited impatiently, and more than a little anxiously, for the others to return.

At first, he attributed his uneasiness to the fact he wasn't where he always felt he should be, alongside his brothers, and his forced passivity in the plan but it wasn't too long before he knew there was more to it than that.

For a start, the room, with no fire lit in the small grate, was warmer than might have been expected in the chill evening of early autumn; initially he dismissed that observation as being a reaction to two nights spent sleeping in the chill forest but, and he was sure he was not mistaken in this, it did seem to be getting warmer.

As subtly as possible he inhaled a little more deeply than normally, and certainly more than his bruised ribs were comfortable with; he did his best to disguise the resulting prolonged twinge of pain it caused him. The faint but unmistakeable tang of smoke hung more readily in the air than he would have expected from any fire elsewhere in the building, even one as simply built as this.

His eyes coming back to rest on the room's other occupant once more, he noted her eyes had widened slightly. Surreptitiously he followed their gaze as he would the sight of a gun to the side and left of him and saw, as she clearly had, a few tendrils of smoke starting to creep underneath the door. He eased himself from the chair and, removing one glove, tested the temperature of the door with the back of his hand; it was warm to the touch.

With increasing trepidation, he used his gloved hand to softly twist the key in the lock. The metal felt unnaturally warm even through the leather and confirmed his suspicion he wasn't going to like what he found on the other side .

Covering his mouth and nose with a cloth retrieved from the small table serving as a washstand, he cautiously opened the door a small amount holding himself a little to one side of the aperture. A blast of heated air accompanied with a considerable amount of smoke entered the room but, fortunately, no flames. Endeavouring to breathe as little of the noxious air as possible he peered down the narrow landing towards the simply-made wooden staircase. It became immediately obvious that a significant fire was burning on the ground floor or, possibly (and more alarmingly), had been set at the base of the stairwell, their only obvious way out.

Aramis thought quickly; conscious that the dry wood of the simple staircase would act like tinder and he couldn't be sure how long the floor beams beneath him would hold out; Athos and Porthos were only across the street but he wasn't sure if there would have been anyone outside who'd have raised the alarm yet, last time he'd looked, the main street was completely deserted.

He needed to get back to the other room, it was at the furthest point from the fire and its window looked out towards the bar; he should be able to get some attention from there.

The smoke within the room was already starting to become more dense. He could see Climence struggling not to cough.

Tempting as it was to show the same lack of compassion she had toward her men, Aramis was all too aware that he could not do the same.

"Mademoiselle, it appears we need to relocate elsewhere," he drew the small dagger from his belt and sliced through the ropes that attached her tied hands to the bedpost. She remained silent and showed no response to the action.

The instant she was freed from the spot, instead of standing, she drew her knee up toward her chest and kicked viciously at his right leg, maliciously landing her heel directly on the barely healing injury and brought both her fists, still tied together, up under his chin before fleeing for the door.

The uppercut lacked any real power but was sufficient to knock him off balance as the spasm of pain that racked his leg momentarily took his full focus. Stumbling to the floor, where fortunately the air was clearer beneath the pall of smoke that was now gathering, he drew some much-needed deeper breaths while Climence, hands still bound, wrenched open the door and stumbled toward the stairs: Unconcerned there may be any possibility of escape via that route, he maintained his low position and moved as freely as his leg would allow to follow her.

He arrived at the doorway in time to see Climence's silhouette, shrouded by smoke, screaming at someone she appeared to recognise, demanding they rescue her...the escape she sought but did not anticipate came in the form of two gunshots.

For all she'd done and the crimes she'd committed, Aramis couldn't help but feel some pity at the manner of her demise. He watched helplessly as her body tipped forward into the flames, now lapping at the walls surrounding the staircase; her body crashing on to what remained of the wooden treads causing it to collapse fully.

Any brief pity he may have felt was, immediately, dispelled as the massive amount of extra fuel and weight dumped onto the flames caused a fireball to surge upwards and along the passageway towards him.

His survival instinct overrode any other physical concerns as he sprang from his semi-crouched position to the only shelter within reach, curling in on himself behind the open door just in time to avoid the full force of the conflagration that flowed like a tide through every avenue it could reach: Facing into the corner of the room, he covered his head and face with his leather-clad arms and hat to protect his exposed skin, endeavouring to not breathe at all as searing heat filled the air.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

Porthos had already emerged from the bar and was running toward the inn when the fireball that had consumed the stairwell caused the front door to be blasted open and the main street to be showered in glass and burning shards of splintered wood: He dived for cover, glancing behind him to make sure Athos had done the same.

The aftermath was a melee of screams and shouts as the shocked and stunned residents of Auchonne, already roused by the gunshots, flooded into the street. Panicked cries and orders to fetch water and rescue the horses from the neighbouring stables could be heard being issued by the calmest among them.

Athos, having been slightly further away from the blast, was first to recover and, pulling himself to his feet, caught up with Porthos just in time to prevent him from trying to enter the building. Gripping his coat firmly, it took all his strength to hold on to the big man; reason won out, but only just.

"We'll find him." Athos, gripped his friend's shoulders, ensuring he had his attention and stating the words with a certainty he didn't feel.

He had a horrible sense of deja vu as he realised he'd said exactly the same thing only that morning: He fervently hoped that the deity Aramis believed in so devoutly hadn't capriciously decided to recall the favour granted him at the ravine.

They both stood, temporarily motionless, as, with the resigned discipline found among people for whom every day was a fight to survive, a simple human chain formed to pass receptacles of all manner filled with water beginning the job of dousing the small fires dotted around the street and neighbouring buildings; the inference being that the inn was already beyond any kind of salvage and that the priority was to prevent the fire spreading.

Beyond the shouted instructions and the whinnying of scared horses as they were evacuated from the stables, their own among them, the sound of multiple riders galloping away from the stricken town was scarcely noted and made no impression on their consideration: Their frantic thoughts were focused solely on the building being consumed before their eyes.

Athos tapped Porthos' arm, nodding his head to indicate the corner of the inn closest to them, where their room had been located on the upper floor: The window was dark as though the fire hadn't penetrated that far yet.

Nodding his understanding, Porthos broke free from the hands holding him and, wordlessly, started to look for an alternative entry point.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

The roar of flames and heat that had filled the room abated slightly and, tentatively, Aramis attempted a shallow breath through the cloth still covering his face: The air was thin, smoky and unpleasantly warm but a better option than suffocation for the time being.

Turning cautiously he could see small fires burning throughout the room; the bedding and furnishings in particular. The ceiling was blackened and scorched where the flames had risen up and small plumes of smoke from smouldering woodwork indicated it wouldn't be too long before they started to add further fuel to the inferno.

As he started to make careful headway around the door he could see small flames starting to lick through the gaps between the floorboards beneath him and realised that the beams below were now alight: The knowledge pumped even more adrenalin into his pained and injured muscles as he tenaciously pushed through the smoke-filled corridor towards the final door and his only hope of escape.

Coughing and choking, he used his leather-clad forearm to lever open the latch securing the door. Entering the room he noted thin wisps of smoke were already starting to weave upwards from the floor below.

Guided as much by the shouting from the street as the thin, reedy moonlight streaming through the window, he made it across the room only to realise, with a rising sense of panic, that it wouldn't open: The rotted wooden frame had, apparently, been painted with some kind of bitumen to strengthen and waterproof it but it had hardened and sealed not only the wood but the entire casement and clasp.

The gap he'd be able to create by smashing the thick crudely-made glass alone would not provide a large enough opening for him to get out quickly and he knew, from having witnessed it before, that the air such an action would let in would draw the fire upward and toward him as certainly as any chimney leaving him little or no time to gain anyone's attention.

On the other hand...another shallow breath resulting in a coughing fit which racked his still painfully bruised ribs proved that his options in this situation were woefully few.

Firmly of the opinion he'd rather die attempting something than suffocate helplessly, and without particularly considering how exactly this was going to work, he reached inside his coat and found the small pouch of gunpowder that always nestled there.

Hoping it would be enough for his purposes, or indeed to have any positive effect, he dispensed it all along the lower edge of the window in the groove between the frame and casement. Bracing his back against the wall alongside, as close as he dared, he used his hat to shield his face, raised his pistol and fired at the centre of the trail he'd left.

 _TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM_

The street outside was mayhem as scared townspeople did whatever they could to save their humble dwellings and businesses. They ran to either side of the musketeers in their midst without sparing them a second glance, neither expecting or asking their assistance which, under any other circumstances, would have been freely given.

It hadn't taken long for the two of them to realise there was no way in to the building that wasn't already saturated by smoke and fire other than the lone window though, as flames had now started to pour out of the window directly beneath it, it didn't appear that would be the case for much longer: They stared at it helplessly, lacking any means to get there or even to know whether that would be a fruitless task if they were, somehow, to do so.

A sudden explosion from the object of their attention caused them to turn to protect themselves from the shower of glass and debris: When what appeared to be a body launched itself through the cloud of detritus, it was Porthos who reacted fastest, almost unthinkingly, throwing himself to intercept its fall to the ground and rolling, shoulder first, onto the littered street; clutching to him what he'd instinctively known would be Aramis...coughing painfully and covered in soot but alive.

The momentum of their fall had barely lessened when a further loud bang from the vicinity of the room so recently vacated indicated that the door had given way and a ball of flame shot out of the gaping aperture at first floor level.

Porthos neither acknowledged nor cared either about the effects the heavy landing might have had on his back or shoulder or, indeed, how he might appear to the villagers at that point in time; the screams he'd heard from various quarters indicated the dramatic escape had not gone unnoticed. His sole concern at that point in time was that his friend had somehow, once more, cheated death. Letting his head relax back on the ground he tried to laugh but it just came out as a massive sigh of relief instead.

After a few moments, Aramis' breathing started to even out and he raised his head stiffly:

"Nice catch." He patted his friend's shoulder area in a gesture of appreciation and started, painfully, to roll himself in a better position to attempt to stand.

"Anytime." Porthos made to sit up, helpfully assisting Aramis' attempt to get upright without obviously doing so. It did not go unnoticed by his friend that the big man was rolling his shoulder slightly or the grimace that accompanied the movement.

Two leather-clad arms, one of which was wrapped with a rudimentary bandage, were extended to help them to their feet and accepted gratefully by both men.

The townsfolk were being largely successful in keeping the fire away from the surrounding buildings but the inn itself was on the verge of collapse. Supporting Aramis, whose right leg seemed unwilling to take on the task, the musketeers started to move out of the street and away from further immediate danger. A woman dispensing water to the thirsty fire fighters indicated they should move in her direction and came to meet them with drinks which they accepted eagerly.

"You're hurt." Aramis paused after several mouthfuls of water and nodded towards the bandage on Athos' arm before he continued to drain the remainder of the cup.

"Says the man who just exited a building via an upper-floor window. I do hope you're not planning to make a habit of that."

Aramis huffed a small laugh in response:

"I'll try not to..."

He was interrupted by shouting from the fire fighters, warning one another to keep back, as the beams supporting the first floor of the inn finally collapsed followed almost immediately by the roof: Porthos moved away from the others to kick dust over some small pieces of flaming debris that landed near them while the men worked to extinguish the others but allowed the blaze in what remained of the building to exhaust itself naturally.

Aramis' thoughts dwelt briefly on Climence, there'd be barely anything left to bury. Heaven knew he'd found little worthy of redemption in the woman but, even so, she'd known those men and expected them to save her but they'd shot her in cold blood: He shuddered at all the deaths, Edouard's included, for whatever was written on the piece of paper that still nestled inside his coat.

As if wondering the fate of their erstwhile prisoner himself, Athos enquired as to what had happened; his face inscrutable as always when heard how she'd died.

"Her contact had been poisoned when we got to him," he simply intoned in reply.

"Seems like the intention was to ensure the trail stopped here." Aramis voiced his friend's tacit implication.

Porthos caught the end of the brief conversation and concurred with the conclusion even if he hadn't been privy to what had been said before. He looked around at the tiring villagers as they sought to keep what little they had. An occasional curious glance toward the musketeers in their midst confirmed his feeling that they had nothing to do with the men responsible for this.

"I suggest we get what rest we can tonight and head for Paris in the morning." Athos' suggestion met with the full agreement of the others.

"About time..." Porthos mumbled.

TBC


End file.
